Resolutions
by kaurseeker
Summary: Set shortly after The Time of the Wolf. Gisburne has been left to rot in Newark by the Sheriff. Marion is at Halstead and refuses to leave. The remaining outlaws are still hiding out in the forest waiting for Robert, who has disappeared.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer; All versions of the Robin Hood characters belong to Richard Carpenter. I've just borrowed them to play with. The others I claim as my own :) This is my attempt to answer some of the unfinished storylines of the 1980's Robin of Sherwood series. If you haven't seen it (where have you been?) I recommend it to you. I hope you enjoy my version of what might have happened. Feel free to pull me up on any canon or historical bloopers. If anything can be proven and backed up with evidence I will amend the story. Please be nice though :)**

**A/N: Story contains some own characters, for which I make no apologies, and is turning out to be very long!**

**sidenote; To differentiate between the two Robin's I have used Loxley for the Michael Praed character and Robert or Huntingdon for the Jason Connery character, except where Huntingdon is being spoken to directly. He is called Robin by the outlaws.**

**Thanks to Fayzalmoonbeam for her patient beta-reading and encouragement. Also to the members of the various RoS groups around the 'net who answered some rather odd questions regarding Castle de Belleme, arrow fletchings and other RoS related stuff. Cheers all!**

**In memory of Robert Addie and John Abinieri; two members of the wonderful cast who bought this show to life.**

**RESOLUTIONS**

Guy of Gisburne squeezed himself against the mud wall of the pit as a shower of vegetable peelings and human excrement splattered onto the floor beside him. He retched at the stink of the fetid mess and heard laughter above his head. He glowered up at the peasants gathered there, then slammed backward as a second load of noxious liquid was tipped into the hole.

"Too good for the pigs...thought we'd save it for you my Lord."

The mob above him howled with laughter and began to trail away about their business. It was early and the hustle of a market place setting out its wares reached the knight. Gisburne cursed de Rainault. Where was the Sheriff? King John had called him to the great hall of Newark Castle two nights before, yet no-one had come to take Gisburne out of the town's crude version of an oubliette. He felt a thrill of fear touch him. De Rainault could easily afford both fines set by the King, but what if he decided not to pay Gisburne's?

I saved his life, Gisburne thought to himself, but he knew that would count for little in his favour. He remembered the glint of the upraised blade in the torches of Grimstone's great hall as Grendal's master pulled a dagger from the mouth of the beast he worshipped.

_Gulnar grants you the privilige._

De Rainault's eyes had never left his. There was no fear there and Gisburne found that he could not do it; could not butcher a nobleman with a madman's knife. Three times that day he held de Rainault's life balanced on a blade. Three times he had chosen not to draw blood. Now, for the first time, he wondered if he'd made the right choice.


	2. Chapter 2

Deep in Sherwood Forest Will Scathlock threw himself down on the muddy banks of a stream and drank deeply. Beside him Nasir eyed the trees warily until Scathlock had finished, then cupped water into his own mouth. The two settled wearily in the clearing keeping their weapons to hand. It had been over three weeks since Marion had entered Halstead Priory and refused to leave. Nearly two weeks since Robert had left them with the promise to meet soon in Sherwood. Nothing had been seen of him since.

Nasir scrabbled amongst the humus of the forest floor pulling out several large stones. These he arranged in a rough circle nearWill's feet. As Nasir bought out his tinder box Will dragged himself up with a sigh and searched the area for dry wood, placing small twigs and pieces of bark into the makeshift fireplace. The Saracen blew on the sparks, coaxing the small fire into life. Placing a stack of moss covered branches within easy reach. Will slumped back into his crosslegged position, holding his hands close to the flames.

Nasir whipped around just as voice boomed across to them.

"Bring our own dinner then shall we, Scarlet."

Will grinned at Little John of Hathersage. In one hand the huge, bearded man dangled two dead hares by the ears.

"As long as it's not bloody venison," said Will with a laugh.

"The king has donated this for your pleasure." John gave a theatrical wave behind him and a white faced boy with red hair pushed his way past carrying a pheasant and a bag stuffed with green leaves. He waved the bird in the air, iridescent plummage catching the light. Will got up and took it from him.

"Mind if I keep the feathers for my pillow"

Much the Miller's son looked faintly puzzled. "You don't use a pillow, Will"

Will Scarlet gave the lad a mock clout around the head, plumped himself back down by the fire and began plucking the pheasant.

"What took you so long?" he said.

John took a seat opposite him, and pulled out a metal blade embedded in a wooden handle. He cut the four paws from the first

carcass and began pulling the fur away from the the wiry body.

"Ran into de Rainault's men. He's back from Newark. Seems the King charged him a fortune for losing Robin," John said as he

worked.

"We lost 'em easy enough though," added Much.

"Aye, ran 'em a right dance we did." John grinned at the thought of the Sheriff's men still thrashing around the forest looking for

them, then he sobered. "There's no food in the villages; there are lads clamouring to join us from all over"

Will spat in the fire making it hiss and crackle. "Aye, John, we know how well that always works out"

"What are the four of us going to do when Robin gets back? We need more men," John said, not meeting the other man's eyes.

"Those bastards always run away and leave us in the shit." Will finished plucking the pheasant and pulled out his own rough knife to

gut it, pulling its entrails out through a slit in the stomach.

"It'll be different this time. Their families are all suffering...starving"

"Everytime, John!" Will glared at him, waving his knife in the air for emphasis. "Ungrateful soddin' peasants they are." He took the

carcass downstream to wash it and came back looking thoughtful. "You didn't mention Gisburne"

"I was saving the best 'til last," John said. "De Rainault didn't pay Gisburne's fine. He's sitting in a pit in the middle of Newark with

shit raining down on his head."

The four outlaws chuckled to themselves as they finished preparing the first decent meal of several

days.


	3. Chapter 3

Gisburne jerked awake. Moonlight picked out chips of flint embedded in the steep sides of the pit and he cursed as he realised that his long legs had stretched into the pile of effluence whilst he slept. There was a scraping noise above him and shadows flitted over the hole.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "Who are you?" No point in dying quietly, he thought to himself. The legs of a crude wooden ladder appeared through the hole as it was manhandled into the pit. Before it touched the ground Gisburne had his foot on the bottom rung and pulled himself up into the cold night air. Any hopes he had of knocking out would be assassins died as his eyes came up level with an armed guard pointing crossbows at his chest. Their surcoats bore an insignia that he didn't recognise

A young man stepped forward, tall and dark haired, his grey eyes full of curiousity.

"You reek," he said.

Gisburne looked down at the excrement staining his cloak, vegetable matter embedded deep in the rings of the rusted mail he'd bought from a soldier in the castle with the last of his gold.

"It'll wash," he said grimly. "Do I live or die."

Amusement lighted the young man's eyes. "An unknown benefactor has paid your ransom. I was sent to set you free."

"Was it de Rainault"

"De Rainault left two days ago muttering that he was a bankrupt." The young man took a step nearer as if to offer his hand, then

recoiled at the stench. "I am Arthur de Verrier, squire to the house of Chambray."

"Sir Guy of Gisburne, steward to the High Sheriff of Nottingham the last time I breathed fresh air."

"My home is not far from here, may I offer you some refreshment...and perhaps a bath."

"I cannot pay you anything," Gisburne said ungraciously.

A grin broke across the squire's face. "I'll take the task on as a favour to mankind."

De Verrier had left one of his men just inside Newark's main gate to guard the half dozen horses and Gisburne's black courser. The man at arms lounged against a fuller's workshop talking to the owner, but snapped smartly to attention when he saw de Verrier.

"We return to Larkesbeare," de Verrier called to his men.

Gisburne mounted Fury, noting that the animal had fared better than he, for the dark coat was groomed to a satiny sheen. He turned his horse and followed the hollow ring of de Verrier's men as they clopped out of the cobbled gateway and spurred into a canter away from the town. The air was cool and dew ladened, helping to wash the stink of confinement from his nostrils as Fury rose and fell beneath him.

Steadying their pace to a ground eating lope, they rode for several miles down the Great North Road, then turned West, the sky lightening behind them. The bare trees became sporadic, the land divided into long strips and deeply furrowed. A collection of thatched huts rose up in the distance and swept past in a blur. A peasant woman, running to pull her child from the path of the thundering horses, lifted her fist at them and mouthed curses that they did not hear.

The well rutted lane they followed became a narrow street between well tended huts. An old man, herding pigs past the small market cross, raised his hand in greeting to the horsemen. At the foot of a low, wooded hill, four men were digging the beginnings of a deep ditch. They paused in their work, squinting up at the riders as they slowed to a trot over a newly erected wooden bridge.

As they climbed the sides of the hill the trees parted to reveal a wide fronted, stone manor house, it's twin towers as yet uncrenallated. Gisburne followed the soldiers around the left wing of the house and through an archway that led into a cobbled courtyard. The stables lay to the left. To the right, beside a large kitchen garden, stood a cookhouse, little more than a stone-roofed leanto against the back wall of the house. A man and boy came running forward to take the lead horses and the men at arms dismounted and set about watering their mounts at a trough set against the well in the centre of the yard. De Verrier handed his reins to the older groom and gestured for him to do the same.

"Ranec is a wonder with horses," he said. "I swear the beasts understand him."

Fury nickered softly and butted the old man's torn coat. Ranec slipped one hand into his pocket to produce a hard, shrivelled apple, the other traveling along Fury's neck to scratch under his mane.

"You've looked after Fury well," Gisburne said in approval.

His lined split into paler wrinkles as he grinned, gap-toothed, at the Knight. "I did wonder what this one's name was. There Fury, now we've been properly introduced."

Gisburne followed de Verrier through a sidedoor and into the cookhouse. Two fires burned in a huge grate at one end of the room, covered by an assortment of spits and cooking pots. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread made his stomach growl. He tried to count back the days since his last decent meal and failed.

De Verrier slapped the rump of the nearest serving girl, a dark haired, dark-eyed wench.

"Bring us ale and food," he commanded as he stretched his lanky frame along one of the narrow benches by the table. Gisburne copied his example and dug into the bowl of fatty mutton and vegetables that the girl passed him, washing it down with long swallows of the bitter ale. De Verrier tucked into his own food with a more delicate relish and, when Gisburne had finished, bade the girl bring him more. He supped his ale from the rough wooden beaker, waiting until Guy had wiped up the last dregs of gravy with the dark, chewy bread, then beckoned the girl over again.

"Have water heated in the furnace and draw my Lord a bath."

The girl turned her slanted eyes on Gisburne and wrinkled her nose before clattering away up a set of rough hewn steps and out of sight. De Verrier shoved his hand into his surcoat and pulled out a leather bag which he threw across the table to Gisburne. It landed with a thud and a chink?

"Here," he said. "As I was coming to fetch you from the pit an old man came out of the shadows and passed me this."

Gisburne picked it up, heard the chink of coin and knew from the weight that it was a substantial amount, perhaps several months wages under the Sheriff.

"Who was he?"

"No idea, he vanished before I could ask his name. My guess is he works for your mysterious benefactor; a man who knows the King well enough not to trust him with a pouch of gold."

Gisburne cupped the bag in the palm of his hand. Someone had paid his fine. Someone had given him gold. He could not think why, or who. The only certainty he had was that de Rainault had left him to rot.

"Are you Lord and Master here?" he enquired of de Verrier at last.

De Verrier snorted through his ale. "Larkesbeare is the dower of Annys Lanfranc, ward to my Lord, William de Chambray. I have been sent to administer this manor as a punishment for opening my mouth once too often." His face broke into an wry smile. "Until I'm recalled to my lord's side, I _am_ Lord and Master here and I bid you stay and enjoy my hospitality while it is mine to give," he raised his cup. "Once they've cleaned you up a bit, and the likes of Solli no longer turn their noses up at you, we'll have some fun."

Lifting his cup Gisburne tapped it against de Verrier's. He had plans to make, but they would wait a while yet.


	4. Chapter 4

Marion put down her needlework, blinking her eyes from the strain of the fine stitching. Over the weeks her body had become attuned to the rhythm of life at the Priory. Instinctively she knew that it was almost time for evensong, that the bell would shortly summon the nuns from their chores to assemble in the Chapel. The days since she'd left Sherwood had melded into one another, their routine reassuring and predictable, the roaring fires and hot, regular meals a novelty.

As she made her way along the corridor there was a distant hammering and she heard the voice of the porter raised first in query, then alarm. Lifting her long skirts out of the way she hurried to the door to find the other nuns helping a young girl in.  
Under her lank hair, plastered close about her head by the heavy rain, the girl's face was bruised along one side, the eye so blackened and swollen that it hardly opened. Marion stepped forward quickly to take her arm and help guide her to the imfirmary. While Sister Edith went to find the Prioress, Marion helped the girl strip off her rainsoaked clothes and caught her breath as she saw the extent of the beating she had taken.

"Who did this to you?" she asked in horror.

The girl sniffed, clutching her arms around her cold body. "My master," she said. "He thought I'd stolen bread, but it weren't me. It was his apprentice what did it."

"Well, you did the right thing, coming here." Marion smiled at her reassuringly.

The girl grabbed at Marion with work-roughened fingers. "Will they let me stay?" Her eyes were round, imploring. "They will; tell me they will."

"Hush," Marion pushed her against the bed. "I'll make sure of it." She pulled the rough blankets up over the girls thin frame. The girl closed her eyes and snuggled down.  
"I'm Ann," she said, her voice muffled by the coarse wool.

"Rest now Ann. When Mother Hildegarde comes, I'll talk to her for you."

Ann stifled a yawn. "Thank you, m'lady, I'll do anything to stay, be your maid if you like."

Marion hid a smile. It had been many years since she'd had a maid. She wondered if the Priory would allow such a thing and then shook her head at the conceit. Of course Ann could serve her now, but when she took her vows as novitiate, she promised to serve not to be served. Still, if it gave the girl time to heal and decide her way it might be allowed. 


	5. Chapter 5

It was late evening when the blond young man limped into the clearing. Leaning heavily on a makeshift staff he surveyed the glade in the moonlight. The embers of the fire were banked low and several shapes huddled close around it, trying to steal what little warmth there was. Four he recognised, three were strangers. A crude shelter stood teetering to one side as though erected hurriedly. The whole area was tramped and muddy, and two distinct tracks led away from the clearing, one towards the stream which muttered and bubbled out of his sight, fed by an ancient spring; the other led into the trees.

The man took a deep breath that was almost a sigh and squared his shoulders. Straightening his weary body, he swallowed a grunt of pain as he put his weight on his bad leg and threw the staff away. It rustled a bush as it rolled and one of the forms by the fire stirred. Nasir turned, half crouching, a throwing knife gleaming coldly in his hand.

Robert of Huntingdon strode into the circle of firelight refusing to wince at the pain this caused him."Why is no-one on watch?"

Nasir jumped to his feet as the others woke suddenly, Much's hand already on his bow.

"The Sheriff hunts us across the county and you mount no guard."

"We've been waiting here for days," protested Much. "We didn't know where you'd gone."

"Christ!" muttered Scarlet. "Keep a fire burning for a friend and all he does is disturb your sleep." He threw himself back against the hard ground and pulled the woollen cloak up around his ears. "At least some people bring food when they come."

Robert resisted the urge to kick him. "I have food."

Scarlet sat bolt upright and swept his hand over the meagre flames. "Come friend, take a seat at our hearth." He reached up and snatched at the bag in Robert's outstretched hand, leaning close in to the fire to examine the contents. Pulling out two loaves of bread he shared them around. In the silence Little John regarded Robert carefully.

"Where did you go, Robin?"

"To Huntingdon. To my father." He met John's gaze fiercely, as if daring the giant to ask what had passed there. John said nothing. Will pulled an earthenware jar from the bag, removed the stopper and took a noisy pull on it.

"Eat well there, did you? Sit before a roaring fire and think of us?" He wiped his mouth on a mudstained sleeve. Robert pulled out a cloth packet of cooked meat and tossed it to him before seating himself beside Much.

"I slept in the stables and saw my father twice. It was too dangerous to ask more of him."

"Did you see Marion?" Much interupted.

There was a slight hardening of the hazel eyes. "No. I called at Halstead on the way back, but she refused to see me." John and Will share a look and Robert stared hard at them both. "She won't be coming back."

"And Tuck?" said John.

Robert shook his head, "I didn't see him at the Priory. One of the sisters said he's been sleeping in the woods up there." He looked around at the three strangers who shared the fire and found he recognised one of them. "What do you do here, Matthew?"

The boy's teeth glinted in the light and Robert heard the pride in his voice. "I've come to join you, Robin."

"You're too young."

Matthew of Wickham leapt up. He'd shot up over the summer, almost as tall as his father now, his fair hair growing down his neck, but no hint of a beard shadowing his face. "I'm man enough, thirteen in a few weeks."

"Does your father know you're here?"

"Yes."

"Aye," said Will. "But not his mother." The others laughed and Will rubbed the back of his head where Alison of Wickham had once clouted him with an iron pan for encouraging her son in the ways of the outlaws. Not that Matthew had needed much encouragement.

"My father would be here himself, but someone needs to keep Wickham from starving," the boy said, softly.

"And these two?" He gestured at the other men, whom he had not recognised and could barely make out in the flickering light of the fire.  
"Selwyn and Ulfe, they joined us yesterday," said John.

"I passed near several villages along the way, there are many who will join us."

Will glared at him. "Not you as well."

"We have to train them, gather our strength; bad times are coming."

"Bad times are already here Robin. We're outlaws. It won't getting any better than swimming in the mud and hiding from the sheriff's men."

Robert turned to face him, his voice harsh. "Listen to me, Will Scathlock, then leave if you can't follow"  
Will stood and sneered at him across the fire. "The Earl's son returns."

John stepped between them, his hand against Scarlet's chest. "Hear him out, Will."

"I don't need to hear him out," Scarlet said, his voice dangerously low. "I know where this is going. Unite the common folk, send 'em over Nottingham's walls. With what, pitchforks and ploughshares?"

"That's not what I was saying- "

Will's laugh echoed around the clearing. "We could buy 'em proper weapons...oh no, wait, we gave away all that gold we robbed from the Sheriff."

"It was their gold, Will, and- "

"That's enough, both of you!" Much jumped up, his face contorting with anger. "I've listened all week to John and Will going round in circles. We do what we've always done. Hide out in Sherwood. Survive. Take gold from those who can afford it and use it to help those who have none. If men want to join us we take on those we can use, send the others away. And we train them as we've trained each other." He stumbled to a halt, aware suddenly that all eyes were on him. Nasir reached out from behind him, placing his hand on Much's shoulder in silent support. After a moment John stepped over to join them. Encouraged, Much faced Robert.

"And if worse things come, we'll face those too," he said, lifting his chin in defiance.

Will shook his head, a slight smile playing across his mouth. "That's what I was saying."

Robert looked from face to face, guaging what he saw there. "Good," he said at last. "I'll take the first watch. Will, are you with me?"

Groaning, Will grabbed up the jar of ale and followed him.

"Must you always use that against me?" Robert said, quietly enough so that the others wouldn't hear.

"What?"

"Being an Earl's son."

" 'Course, best insult I have." Scarlet's face broke into a grin. "And it works...gets you everytime."


	6. Chapter 6

Gisburne rose from his first night at Larkesbeare to find Solli in the yard, scrubbing at his mail. The metal rings sparked in the sunlight as they lay across her sodden dress. She eyed him speculatively from under her lashes and he reflected that Arthur was right; a bath had done wonders for his appeal. 

She crept into his scratchy pallet, in a dark corner of the Manor's hall, sometime later that first week and he'd welcomed the warmth of her, relieved that she always disappeared before the dawn.

On this, his seventh day at the manor house, he awoke late and hungover. He lay listening to the servants clattering around him, scattering stray chickens as they worked. Watching the buzz of activity, he thought ruefully of his private apartment at Nottingham Castle. A small room, sparsely furnished, but with a fine view over the castle walls and the deer park. It had been a refuge from de Rainault's often unpredictable temper. And a place to enjoy a woman on a cold night. He wished he'd appreciated it more at the time.

He stretched and rose to find he still wore the previous day's hose and breeches. He didn't remember getting to his bed and his head throbbed horrendously. Bending carefully he retrieved his borrowed tunic from the floor and pulled it over his head. Arthur was a few inches shorter than he and the fit was not perfect. He needed to visit the nearest town and have some garments of his own made up. All of his belongings were still at Nottingham, but he had no intention of going back yet to claim them.

Kicking a hen from the nest she'd made between his boots, he wipe off the greenish-white deposit she'd left him and hopped towards the narrow corridor, pulling on the boots as he went. Arthur appeared and grinned at him, seeming none the worse for wear, despite their carousing until the early hours.

"Are you ready to lose your bet?" he said.

Puzzled, Guy frowned at him.

"Last night? You challenged me to a sword fight." Arthur slapped him hard across the shoulder, setting his head spinning again. "After we finished the innkeeper's best ale."

Gisburne groaned as a vague memory surfaced. He recalled boasting of his sword skills and challenging Arthur to a duel.

"Come Guy, let us see how you handle a blade." Arthur led the way out of the house and into the cobbled courtyard. The men-at-arms sat in the weak sunlight cleaning their weapons and tack on a large blanket. One man stirred a large box of sand containing a shirt of mail, the rings clinking dully together as the sand ground away the rust.

The soldiers looked on with interest as Arthur selected two swords from the pile that had been cleaned and handed one to Gisburne. He studied it closely as he weighed it in his hand. It was heavy, but well balanced, the cross guard curving comfortably over his fingers. The hilt was inlaid with an intricate pattern of bronze and topped by a heavy pommel. Arthur's sword looked lighter, with a more tapered blade, better for cutting and thrusting and more suited to his shorter stature.

Planting his feet firmly apart, Gisburne swung the sword through the air to accustom himself to the weight of it. He wished he'd taken a drink of water first. The landlord's "best ale" had tasted like donkey's piss and his mouth was still foul from it, but Arthur took a step back and readied himself.

Watching de Verrier carefully, he saw the tell tale signs that precipitated a move and swung his blade up. The clang of metal on metal echoed harshly and rooks nesting in the tower flapped into the air, squawking in protest at the noise.

Arthur drove in again, feinting to the left, but again Gisburne blocked him. The two men circled each other. It was late morning and the sun burned the sky white. Gisburne's woollen hose began to itch beneath the tunic. Still he held back and let de Verrier make the moves, studying his form as the two men moved over the cobbles.

Within minutes Gisburne's hair was plastered to his head with sweat, but he dared not remove a hand from the hilt to push it out of his eyes.

Verrier lunged to the right, catching him out as the sword hummed past his ear, but Gisburne had the measure of him now. His advantage lay in the longer reach of his sword and the momentum of the heavier blade. As long as he kept the squire at bay, Arthur could do him little damage.

De Verrier leapt forward but Gisburne was ready and hacked away, forcing the younger man back across the courtyard with a flurry of heavy blows. De Verrier staggered backwards, barely able to hold his sword up to the onslaught.

"Alright, Guy, alright." He laughed, holding his hand up, palm facing out in a gesture of surrender.

Gisburne lowered his sword. De Verrier was hardly perspiring, his breathing still light and easy. Ruefully, he felt the slackness of his muscles through the leather tunic. Life under the Sheriff had made him soft. He'd only held his own against the younger man because of experience. In a fight to the death de Verrier, lighter footed and fitter, would have worn him down and finished him.

"Can I keep this sword?"

Arthur shrugged. "You earned it. It is an old relic though."

One of the men at arms picked out a battered, leather scabbard and belt from the collection of weapons spread on the blanket. He held it out to Gisburne, who took it and slipped the blade into it. A perfect fit.

"This is Henry, my Captain," de Verrier said.

The soldier nodded a curt greeting. "You're bleeding, my lord," he said.

Gisburne looked at the three distinct lines of scarlet, flowering along his shoulder.

Arthur stepped forward, puzzled. "I'm sure I didn't cut you."

It was Gulnar's wound, the Mark of Fenris, that had put him into the thrall of the magician. The exertions of the practise had torn the newly healing skin.

"It's nothing," he reassured Arthur. "An old wound re-opened."

"Take it to Solli, she'll bind it for you," Arthur said.

Still carrying his newly aquired sword, Gisburne ducked his head under the lintel of the kitchen door and blinked to adjust his eyes to the darkness within. Acrid smoke clawed at his dry throat and he took a drink from the water bucket inside the door. Solli stood by the fire, her slender figure bent at the waist as she tended the pots. Smoke wreathed around her and as she turned at the sound of him, he saw her eyes watered from it.

"I need you to tend my wound," he said gruffly.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at his tone, but she said nothing. Wiping her hands and face on her apron, she turned to the shelves set into the wall beside her and pulled out a box stuffed with old linen.

He sat at the bench and she slid the box onto the table as she passed, fetching the the water bucket back with her.  
She studied the bloodstain then flicked her eyes up to his face.

"You'll have to remove your shirt, my lord."

Awkwardly, because the wound had begun to sting, he shrugged himself out of the tunic and his linen undershirt. His chest was clammy with sweat, her hand cool as she laid it against his skin to study the wound in the poor light. She frowned.

"Did an animal do this?"

Gisburne shrugged. "A man," he said.

Pouring water onto a piece of cloth, she dabbed gently at the wound. The stinging grew to a burning itch and he winced. Solli looked up in surprise.

"This might sting a little, that's all," she said, misinterpreting his expression.

"It's not that- " He shuddered. The bright, hot fires of the kitchen darkened.

Join us or die, Grendal had said. He would not die. He was not ready for that. The rank smell of a badly cured wolf pelt assailed his nostrils. He was back in Grimstone, kneeling before Gulnar, Grendal at his shoulder.

_Do you forswear all allegiances, save to Fenris?_

He had sworn many allegiances in his life. As page to the Earl of Gloucester. To God, on the day he became a knight. In service to Hugo and then his brother, the Sheriff. And to two King's, two other brothers, Richard and John. Vows sometimes taken sullenly, but never unwillingly. His voice shook with uncertainty as he replied.

"I do."

_Release the beast within you._

"My lord?"

He blinked. Solli knelt on the beaten floor of the kitchen, her face concerned, her hands resting lightly, palms down against his thighs. He took a ragged breath. His chest was on fire, his shoulder burned. The girl rose and poured him a cup of water. He choked on the cool liquid.

"I am alright," he said at last.

Her dark eyes studied him as she sat on the bench beside him. "What was that?"

He shifted uncomfortably."I'm not sure. This cut happened sometime ago," he gestured to his shoulder. "I think I was drugged. But surely..."

"It is possible for a drug to affect a person for sometime after it is used," she said.

He met her eyes again in hope. That would mean he was not insane. Relief flooded through him. "You think so?"

"I know so." Her lips curved upwards in a soft smile. "Or if the experience was particularly strong, maybe it is still with you."

Yes, he thought, perhaps that was all it was. She reached across to finish cleansing the wound and dressed it. Her black eyes slanted upward lending her an exotic air, accentuated by her skin, tanned from the sun and glowing healthily. Today, her long dark hair, which had trailed so seductively over him in the night, was covered by a white cap and plaited in a long, glossy rope down her back. The burning in his shoulder began to subside to be replaced by a more urgent sensation between his thighs.

Brusquely, hoping she hadn't noticed the stirring in his groin, he pushed himself off the bench and dressed, striding back out to the yard, not even thanking her for her help. Arthur and the men still worked in the there, but before he could speak to them, hoofbeats shattered the still air. Through the side gate, a horse approached along the track. It's rider slowed the animal just enough to dismount at a run and fetch up in front of them. The man, a young soldier, was perspiring heavily and as he fought to catch his breath he held out a scroll to Arthur. As de Verrier unrolled it Gisburne caught sight of a green shield heading the parchment; a bear rampant scrawled hastily beneath it. The squire's eyes skimmed the text, his face becoming grim.

"What is it?" said Guy.

De Verrier's eyes met his. "I am summoned to Newark Castle where my lord waits on the King." He turned to the horseman, "What is this about, Edgar?"

"King John has demanded men for a foray into Wales. Our lord volunteered a force." Edgar's horse had circled back towards it's master and stood nearby, flanks heaving from the headlong ride from Newark.

"Go to the kitchens, refresh yourself. "

"I was told to ride straight back to Newark, my Lord." Edgar caught at his horse's reins.

"Your horse is blown, I'll have a fresh one saddled immediately. You've time to eat if you're quick."

"Thank you, sir," said the soldier gratefully and led his horse across to the stables.

Arthur turned to Guy. "Well my friend, your sojorn at Larkesbeare comes to an abrupt end."

Guy struggled to think. He could still return to Nottingham, to the Sheriff, but before the idea had fully formed in his mind he found himself saying; "I'm coming with you, to Wales. I want to fight."

Arthur clapped his shoulder. "I was hoping you would." he said in a conspirital whisper.


	7. Chapter 7

Robert de Rainault, High Sheriff of Nottingham was in a towering rage. "God's teeth, Hugo, I've just paid the King a fortune to set me free and now he decrees a personal levee for this pathetic war against Philip of France."

Hugo, the Abott of St Mary's, sat patiently in the Great Hall waiting for the tirade to end and his brother's cunning mind to engage the problem rationally.

"The coffers are empty, you hear me. I've lost everything. Everything!"

Hugo held back a sigh of exasperation. This statement was not exactly true. There was money in Nottingham's treasury. Taxes had come in only last week, set at a premium rate to ease the Sheriff's anger. The rents from the demesne around the castle were higher than ever. There was the money that he, Hugo, kept hidden from the King's greedy eyes on Robert's behalf. And Hugo knew his brother well enough to be sure there were other, well-stashed riches that only the Sheriff himself knew the whereabouts of.

"It's all the fault of the Wolfshead," Hugo said, amusing himself by fuelling the tirade.

"Robin in the Hood," spat de Rainault. "We had him, he was dead. Where did he go?" He supressed a shudder. Robert of Huntingdon's body had been in the back of the cart the last time he'd looked. Yet, by the time they had reached Newark, it had vanished.

"Well, he didn't just get up and walk off did he." Hugo selected an apple from the bowl on the table and polished it lightly against his purple cassock. His brother rounded on him in fury.

"Didn't he?"

"Come on, Robert- "

"I rather thought it was your business to believe in resurrection."

"Only the one." Hugo took a bite from the reddest part of the apple, it was overripe and the juice dribbled down his chin. He wiped it away hastily, but de Rainault hadn't noticed. He was pacing the hall again, his eyes protruding wildly from their sockets.

"More than one. Remember Simon de Belleme?"

"The Baron?"

"He came back. I saw him, with my own eyes."

"One of the perquisites of demon worship." Hugo smirked. "Maybe this carter you hired tipped the body off the cart when you weren't looking. All these peasants are in league with Robin Hood."

De Rainault ceased his pacing. Yes, perhaps that was it. Perhaps when the wheel had stuck and the man had got down to free it. Perhaps then he'd tipped the body into the mud. Impossible to find the carter now and torture him into confession. Just another dirty face in a sea of unwashed peasants.

A herald appeared at the head of the steps leading into the Hall, but was shoved aside by the captain of the guard. The man advanced down the Hall and knelt before de Rainault, his blue cloak fanning out behind him.

"Where's Gisburne?" demanded the Sheriff.

The soldier held out a heavy cloth sack, but didn't look up. "By the time I got to Newark...it was too late, my Lord."

Snatching the bag from the man's hand de Rainault heard the reassuring chink of his gold. "Too late? He was beheaded?"

"No. No, my Lord." At last the man dared to glance up, his face fearful and strained. "Somebody paid his fine. I asked around but no one knew who had raised the money."

De Rainault hefted the bag in his hand; it felt lighter than when he'd given it out. "Did you find out where he'd gone"  
"I had to use some of the gold, my Lord Sheriff, to buy the information. Just a little- "

"Well, where is he then, you oaf?" de Rainault roared.

"He was last seen with a squire of William de Chambray's. The man is steward of an estate outside of Newark, that's all I know- "

"Get out!"

The captain fled.

Still weighing the bag in his hand, the Sheriff stared reflectively at his brother. "Seems Gisburne has found himself some new friends, Hugo."

Hugo snorted and threw the apple core back into the bowl. "About time you got rid of him. Don't know why you purchased his contract from me in the first place."

"Oh, Gisburne had his uses." Absently, de Rainault touched his neck where the blade of Gisburne's sword had rested not so long ago. Gisburne had refused to kill him at Grimstone Abbey, had dragged him to his horse when the outlaws burst in. But then he had held him at swordpoint in the woods. Curious. He hadn't thought Gisburne possessed that much backbone. Or brains.

He took a seat beside his brother. "Seems I need a new steward, Hugo, anyone you'd care to recommend?" 


	8. Chapter 8

Gisburne and de Verrrier rode into Newark through Baldretongate, avoiding the piles of manure collected from the nearby stables, and wound up through the narrow streets to the castle. Leaving Gisburne to wait with the soldiers, de Verrier disappeared into the maze that was Newark to return two hours later with five longbow men. Tall and well muscled, they held their yew staves proudly, the strings coiled and ready for use, wrapped around their steel skull caps to prevent them from twisting.

Gisburne's face twisted in disdain. "If you need archers why not hire crossbowmen? Longbows are for welshmen and outlaws."

"They're coming with us," de Verrier insisted.

Gisburne glanced around the rest of the small company, twenty in all, clad in ancient mail and tattered hauberks. Hardly a force to strike fear into the heart, but at least their swords and knives were in good order. He had to admit, from his experience on the receiving end of a longbow, they could prove a useful addition.

At last de Verrier nudged him sharply and pointed out a black-habited monk threading his way through the busy courtyard towards them.

"Lady Annys' confessor," he hissed. "Perhaps he has bought a message from my lord."

The monk was whip cord thin. His dark face scowled at them. "My lord is in conference with the King. He cannot see you now. He bid me give you this and stay to see it destroyed." He handed de Verrier a scroll. Breaking the seal, de Verrier scanned it quickly and turned to Gisburne with a wild grin.

"The King gives us carte blanche in Wales," he said. "We're to pillage the towns and seek information about Llewelyn's movements. Half of all bounty we take will be given to him on our return to Newark. If we are caught or killed he will disavow all knowledge of our actions."

"We're to be mercenaries then?"

"So it seems," the young man's face flushed with excitement. "Guy, we could make our fortunes. I could buy myself a knighthood and get back in my lord's favour."

He handed the parchment over for Gisburne's appraisal. There was the King's seal in red wax at the bottom of the page, above de Chambray's bear rampant. The monk held out his hand for it, ripped it into small pieces and took a rush torch from a bracket in the wall. Gisburne watched the paper blacken and char, the flakes of soot catching the breeze to dance across the yard. Llewelyn, Prince of Wales, had decreed a horrible death for English pillagers but the King would come out smelling sweeter than a newly opened rosebud. Still, de Verrier was right; small fortunes had been made on such raids and right now he would welcome any weight in his purse.

They scoured the town for what provisions could be found at such short notice, then the small group mounted up and headed west towards the Welsh marches. 


	9. Chapter 9

Baron Simon de Belleme sat in the window of the tower and waited. He had been waiting a long time. Below him in the ruined courtyard of his castle a black habited monk appeared, his cowl pulled low over his face. He skirted the blackened rafters littering the overgrown courtyard and entered the castle through a narrow corridor, all that remained of the kitchen entrance.

De Belleme waited and listened. At last he heard the soft scuffle of the monk's feet as he climbed the steps leading to the tower. As the man entered the room he did not turn. The monk lifted back his cowl and bowed his tonsured head.

"The man I sent to Newark, is he returned?" asked the Baron.  
Brother Hubert hesitated and de Belleme turned from the window to take in the dark face, dessicated by years of work beneath a fierce sun.  
"He was too late, my Lord Baron, the fine had already been paid. He made sure that some of the gold you gave him reached the source directly."

De Belleme crossed his hands before his own black robes and returned to his vigil through the window. "No matter, the result I desired is achieved."

Knowing that it was not wise to question his master, so long a prisoner in this ruined castle, Brother Hubert's curiousity got the better of him. "This man plays an important part in your plans but...is he a wise choice?"

The Baron looked out across the land he had once terrorised, at the sea sweeping the wide stretch of white sand, ebbing and flowing with the tide. It was a view he never tired of.

"I did not choose him. Neither did I set the path he is about to follow. But it is he who prevents the artifact I require from leaving this land and only he who can bring it back without succumbing to its power. Such poor material will do a necessary job when there is want of something better. And the other tasks you were assigned?"

"All that you set in motion is coming to pass."

A smile touched de Belleme's lips. "Then the waiting is almost done."

In the courtyard below two more black figures skirted the debris to enter the castle. 


	10. Chapter 10

Marion sat in an archway beneath the Cloisters, protected from the persistent drizzle, and waited for the Prioress to pass on her daily walk. Spring had yet to arrive, the days still late to start and early to finish. As she gazed across the herb borders, last nights dream played in her head. Robin of Loxley had called to her and they had walked in silence beneath the trees as the forest began its first tentative steps towards defying the winter.

Here in the garden, the branches of the apple trees had not yet budded, their dry arms rattling against the dreary sky. She longed for brighter days when she could begin to make a contribution to Priory life. To use her skills in the garden to put food on the table for the Sister's rather than they supporting her. She bent her head and blew into the cup that Ann had handed as she'd exited the door, the steam warming her cold cheeks, and watched the Prioress approach.

The Reverend Mother Hildegarde eased herself onto the bench, wary of the arthritis that plagued her left hip when the weather was damp.

"This garden has always been my favourite," she said, after a moment. "I tended it as both Novitiate and Sister."

Marion tried to imagine her then as a young girl, her heart broken as Marion's was breaking now. The wrinkled cheeks smooth, perhaps wet with tears, the blue-veined hands unlined and white, soft and unused to the physical toil asked by the Priory in the name of Christ. She failed. They sat in silence, the older woman waiting, experienced in the ways of burdened young women.

"I am with child, nearly three months gone," Marion said.

"Yes. I know," said the Prioress. "Do not look so surprised Marion, the signs are there for those who know them. I am glad you feel you can now tell me."

Marion was taken aback. She was only just sure herself that her one brief night in Robert's arms - the night she had agreed to marry him - had resulted in a child.

"What happens now?" she said, her tone disinterested, resigned to a fate that was no longer hers to control.

"You are hardly the first woman to enter a Convent with child. You may remain here until the child is born. You may choose then whether to stay or leave."

"If I choose to stay what happens to the child?"

"A girl child can be raised here at the Priory, by the Sisters. A son must be sent out either to the Monastery or some other suitable home." Mother Hildegarde paused, regarding Marion with solemn eyes. "I feel that I must warn you, Marion. It is very easy for a young woman in your situation to agree to giving up a child. But once the child is born the wrench is...it is beyond what you are suffering now. Ah, you do not believe that possible. Well, we shall see. You have several months yet to make these decisions and they are not decisions to be taken in haste. Does Robin know of the child?"

Marion was caught unawares for a moment. Of course Robin knows, she thought, I told him in my dream last night that I carried a child. But she caught herself in time, for the Prioress did not mean her Robin, but Robert.

"No, Reverend Mother, I have not told him."

"Then you have a great many decisions to make in the next few months, my child." With a sigh the Prioress rose and pushed herself up from the bench to resume her solitary walk along the cloisters, nodding to Ann who was coming the other way.

Marion studied the girl's face. The bruising was almost gone now, only a slight discolouration beneath one of Ann's brown eyes remained. She smiled tentatively at the older woman and sat beside her, listening careful as Marion told her the Prioress' answer.

"That is good," said Ann approvingly. "At least you are not hounded from the door with the Scourge against your back to speed you on your way."

A small smile touched Marion's lips. Ann loved the dramatic. It amused her greatly to take a small event and embellish it until it was unrecognisable. The girl touched her hand.

"I'll stay m'lady, for as long as you need or want me."

Marion looked down at the tiny hand with its work blunted fingers. The touch was meant to comfort and yet she felt nothing. No warmth entered her being from this show of companionship. What was wrong with her? Had she turned inwards upon herself so much that she could not return a simple gesture?

Troubled, she turned her eyes back across the garden and her thoughts returned to the dreams that haunted her. 


	11. Chapter 11

The clack of wooden staves echoed through the trees. The outlaws sat around the clearing watching as Little John took on two newcomers, Tom and Goodwyn. It was no contest. Tom was already groaning in the mud and Goodwyn, desperately trying to fend off the giant's blows, was driven to his knees for a second time. "What's taking you so long John?" Will laughed. 

Red-faced, Little John turned to Scarlet, raised his staff in the air and let out a roar.

"I'm not challenging you, unless you'd like to try your 'and at a sword," Will said.

Beside him, Nasir laughed softly and jumped to his feet. Drawing his two curved blades, he signalled to Ulfe. Unwillingly the short, dark forester stepped into the muddied arena. Scarlet nudged Matthew in the ribs and offered him his sword. The boy from Wickham looked at him with disbelief, then wrapped his hand around the pro-offered hilt and jumped up to follow Ulfe.

Nasir scythed the double blades through the air, crossing them in his trademark challenge. Planting his feet well apart, one blade held at waist level, the other arcing over his head, the black clad Saracen waited for either opponent to make their move. Ulfe held his position, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple and dripping onto his jerkin. He jumped forward, his single blade squealing against one of Nasir's. Nasir batted it away effortlessly.

Matthew swung out wildly, nearly over balancing as he sought to control the heavy blade. Nasir took a neat step back and the tip of the blade missed by several inches. Matthew flushed with embarrassment.

Selwyn jumped into the attack again. With short chopping blows, Nasir parried every stroke the forester sent his way, twisting at the waist, his feet barely moving. Will watched Matthew dance around the two men, trying to find a way into the fight and winced as one of the crashing blades swung out near Matthew's face. He barely ducked in time to avoid the blow. At last he thrust his sword forward, but Nasir had seen it coming. Still parrying the forester, the Saracen bought his second blade up to meet the boy's blow and sent Matthew tripping backwards over a log and out of the ring. The boy dropped Will's sword and nursed his jarred arm.  
There was a shriek of tortured steel as Nasir scythed his blades together, trapping Ulfe's between them. With a deft flick of his wrists, the Saracen sent the forester's sword spinning out of the log circle, embedding itself in the ground by Scarlet's feet. Scarlet leapt up to protest, but the fight was over. Nasir had his blades crossed at Ulfe's throat. He held the man's gaze for a long moment, then stepped back and bowed, passing one of his blades to Much as he left the arena.

Much hefted his sword in his hand and took a practise sweep. It whined through the air, keen and sharp. Will retrived his sword from Matthew and issued a challenge to the younger man.

"C'mon Much, let's see if you've learn any new tricks."

Much frowned in concentration as he circled the bigger man, looking for a way in under his guard. Scarlet kept his sword at waist level, easing it from one hand to the other, pacing slowly within the log circle. He thrust the blade at the boy, who jumped back nervously. Scarlet gave a short, barking laugh as Much caught himself and resumed pacing. A hush fell on the little gathering as they watched the two men feint and draw back, the action punctuated by Scarlet's goading quips. Suddenly, Much leapt in and his blade found Scarlet's forearm. The older man cursed and lifted his blade to study the cut.

"Much, what 'cho- ?"

But Much's sword was already in the air, the flat of the blade swinging towards Scarlet's head. Scarlet cursed and ducked, rolling onto his shoulder to avoid the blow. The other outlaws cheered as he leapt up panting and covered in dark, sticky earth. He glared at Much and darted in, but Much twisted his body and slipped away from the deadly blade. Turning again, he bought the steel crashing down on the hilt of Scarlet's sword, forcing him to drop it with a yelp of pain. Nasir gave an appreciative clap of his hands and Much blushed bright red. From the Saracen this was high praise indeed.

"You been practising on the sly?" Scarlet puffed, rubbing his numb hand as he fought for breath.

"Nasir's been giving me some help," Much said with a shy smile.

"I must be getting old." Will groaned as he straightened himself slowly.

"So." Ulfe turned to Robert, who sat a little way from the circle. "When do we see some action?"

Selwyn stepped up behind him. "Aye, I want to take out a few of the Sheriff's men."

"You're not ready." Robert stood.

"We've been practising every day - " Ulfe began in protest.

"Then practise more."

Robert turned away from the men, ignoring the look that passed between the older outlaws and the mutinous silence of the new recruits. Winding his way through the trees he came to the place where the spring that fed the stream bubbled its way from the earth into an emerald moss-lined basin of stone. They had done nothing but hide in the forest since his return and he understood their impatience, but their lives were his responsibility and he was loathe to shoulder that burden. How had Loxely done it? How had he taken men into a fight knowing that some, maybe those he counted as dearest friends, would not come back? How did you face a mother or sister or sweetheart and tell them that their man was never coming back to them? He knew the pain, understood that loss, because the ache rose in him every time he thought of Marion and the way she had crushed his hopes in the chapel at Halstead.

He stopped beside the spring, taking a drink from the clear waters. It was cool and sweet and earthy; and then he staggered as Herne's voice, until now always a whisper in his head, seared across his consciousness. He closed his eyes and tried to control the pain, but the forest god was not to be pushed aside.

_Why do you choose to ignore me?_

Robert leant back against a great oak trunk breathing raggedly. His chest was on fire, his vision blurred to white-hot light.

_You are my son. You will do my bidding._

Blindly, he turned from the clearing and staggered to the place where Herne awaited him. As he fell at the feet of the forest God the pain left.

"You know why I have not come," he said, into the heavy silence between them.

"She was never yours. Look deep into your heart and you will see the truth." Herne loomed over him, his antlers silhouetted against the clouded sky. "This is no game, boy, for you to play at and discard at will. You are my son. You were chosen."

"I cannot do this any more. I cannot be Herne's son." He hated the complaint in his voice. Will was right to condemn him as the spoilt brat of a Norman Earl.

"The time is coming for the Hooded Man to leave the forest."

"Then I will be free?"

"We are never free. Neither you nor I. But a different calling awaits you."

Robert rose from his knees. He was bone weary, the burden of responsibility - for the lives of others- was too much to bear. He had not asked to be chosen as the Son of Herne, he had tried to walk away. The first sight of Marion at his father's castle had led him back to Sherwood in the hopes of winning her for himself. A foolish dream, he could see that now. She had not come back to the forest for him, but because the cause that Loxley had begun had to be resurrected, if Loxley's memory was to remain alive.

"What do you want from me?" he said.

"Darkness is coming. Enemies of old unite against us. And we must fight because we stand on the line that divides the light from the darkness."

Herne raised his arms up to the sun and Robert closed his eyes, knowing from past experience that the forest god would not tell but show. The vision came upon him. He was floating high above the spring, following the path of the stream down to the place where it intersected the camp. The outlaws were still training, in groups now, two of the recruits pitted against one of the original members.  
With expert precision he noted their flaws, their strengths. He saw where improvement was needed with a clarity that had not existed before.  
Herne's voice entered his head. _Men cannot serve an absent leader._

"I am always there," Robert said.

_They see you, but they cannot feel you. This was Loxely's strength and your weakness._

"I am no good at speeches, at sending men to die with clever words."

_Then you must find another way._ Herne's voice was gentle, chiding. _For you are the flight of the arrow from my bow and they are the vanes that guide you._

His vision expanded, rose above the forest until the men were invisible beneath the spreading branches. He could see Wickham, squat and fragile against the greenery, a single pillar of smoke rising from its centre. There was Southwell, with its distictive tower. To the south, Nottingham, clinging about the greystone castle and the silver ribbon that was the Trent, winding its way down from Newark. Here was Halstead where Marion rested and he longed to soar to it and fix her face in his heart once more, but Herne would not let him.

_No,_ he said. _There are more important things for you to see._

In the far distance, a castle set against the sea, lying burnt and ruined, rose up whole from the land. A laugh echoed into his mind; maniacal and terrifying. He saw Tuck hurrying through the trees, a bundle clutched to his chest, his face white and moon-shaped as he glanced back in fear. Behind him came dark shapes, hissing and laughing softly, carried by an unfelt wind that roared in Robert's ears. And then the dark shapes themselves were consumed by fear as a great hound, white with red ears and eyes, loped across the landscape of his vision and a hunting horn sounded deep and strident, its call vibrating through his body. Robert came back to the real world of trees and sunlight. Herne stood over him.

"What does it mean?"

Herne said nothing. He folded his hands across the front of his deerskin robe, turned and walked away into the trees. Robert shook his head, he had not expected an answer; the mystery was his to unravel.

As he arrived back at the camp the others eyed him expectantly. It was John who asked the question; "Herne called you to him?"

"Yes."

"Well? What did he say?"

"Riddles and visions," Robert said. His head ached and the laugh still echoed, mocking and abominable, through his mind. He knelt and picked up an arrow that had been discarded during the training session, turning it over in his hands, studying the ash shaft, tipped by a long needle bodkin for piercing mail. The fletches brushed against the palm of his hand. Attatched to the shaft by pine rosin and bound with linen thread, the grey-goose feather, prized for its waterproof oils, would not flatten against the shaft in the damp, allowing the arrow to always fly true.

_You are the flight of the arrow from my bow and they are the vanes that guide you._

He looked around at the circle of expectant faces and made a decision. "It is time we made our presence felt in Sherwood."

"You said they weren't ready," Will interrupted.

Robert turned to him. "They're not," he said. "But practice cannot replace the real thing. If they're to fight at our backs, we need to know we can trust them there."


	12. Chapter 12

Gisburne let the reins go slack to allow his horse to crop the short grass. Before him and behind him stretched a vast moorland of heather, punctuated by stunted gorse. It was the worst possible place to meet an enemy. No natural levee for the bowmen, no incline to speed a calvary charge, no outcrops from which to spring an ambush. Since leaving the southern valleys this was all they had encountered. An endless, mountain plain, the only inhabitants crofters and the odd shepherd attempting to eke out a poor existence. They didn't even bother to run away when the soldiers approached. Not that there was anywhere to hide if they did run. Neither had there been any sight of the enemy. Rumour had travelled down to them that Llewelyn had retreated to his stronghold in the northern mountains. That was all they were able to glean from the peasants and refugees they had encountered along the way.

"Damned useless country," Gisburne muttered.

Arthur appeared at Guy's side, even his exuberant spirits unusually low.

"I'm not going north." Gisburne scowled, twisting in his saddle to face de Verrier.

"Course we're not going north. Get caught in those mountains we'll never be seen again." De Verrier looked back at the men at arms to make sure that none of them was within hearing. "We just need one big raid then I say we turn back"

Gisburne narrowed his eyes against the wind that came gusting across the plain. "Agreed. But first we have to find somewhere to raid." He swept his hand across the bleak vista that confronted them.

"We ride west, towards the coast," de Verrier decided. "The Welsh trade with the Irish. There'll be towns there and richer pickings"

Gisburne grunted his assent. At the very least there would be ale and women and a warm fire under a thatched roof and that was all he wanted right now.


	13. Chapter 13

De Rainault lifted his arm and watched his favourite hawk take flight. The bird climbed until it was a tiny speck against the bright sky, hovering with its wings outstretched. Far ahead, de Rainault could hear the beaters and the dogs baying as they flushed something. Three wood pigeons rose above the trees. The hawk spotted them and settled into a dive, hardly seeming to move at first, then growing larger as it hurtled towards its prey. At the last second one of the pigeons veered, catching the predator's shadow over the trees below, but it was too late. The bird of prey struck in a blur of wings, talons imbedding deep in the pigeons body, it's speed carrying them both through the canopy of trees to the ground.

De Rainault kicked his horse on and came upon the two birds a moment later. The hawk crouched and spread his wings, mantling his catch to hide it from them. De Rainault took a piece of bloodied meat from his bag and held it out in his leather-gloved hand. The predator regarded him for one long minute with yellow eyes, then swept low across the ground and onto the out held fist. He tore at the meat with his curved beak as the sheriff trapped the jesses in his fingers.

"There Ajax, another fine catch from you." With one finger her stroked the soft neck feathers and turned to the man behind him. "Ajax is the pride of my stock. I'll warrant there's no finer falcon in the country."

The man sat uncomfortably in his saddle, his legs sticking out at an awkward angle. He looked, with equal discomfort at the small bird of prey.

"A f..fine bird, my lord."

"Bird?" echoed the Sheriff. "This is no mere bird. This is nature at her most eloquent, Thomas. She has created a masterpiece, a finely honed killing machine."

"Indeed, my lord." Thomas of Twickenham, squinted short sightedly at the bundle of feathers on the Sheriff's fist.

De Rainault sighed. Gisburne would have understood. This new steward, Hugo's recommendation poached from a minor house of the shire, preferred to remain closeted with his books and accounts, burning the tallow until the small hours. No amusement to be had there. He lowered his arm to allow the falconer to take Ajax and watched as he was placed on the wooden frame carried by the apprentice.

They rode on. It was a fine March morning, the ground beginning to soften as spring approached. The forest floor was a blaze of colour, yellow primrose and purple violet and white crocus fragrantly crushing beneath the horses' hooves.

His horse gave a startled whicker as a shape dropped from the trees. A tall, blond man stood in the track before him, his bow raised and an arrow nocked the second he landed on his feet with feline grace.

"Don't bother to call back to the guards Sheriff, you're surrounded."

On either side of the track the bushes rustled and moved. Three more men stepped forward. Cursing silently for getting so far ahead of his soldiers de Rainault feigned indifference, leaning across the pommel of his saddle.

"Robin in the Hood." He smiled grimly. "I knew you weren't dead."  
Robert stepped forward, lowering the bow slightly, but keeping it ready. "Even if I was dead you know that would not have been the end of it."

De Rainault nodded. "I know. So what do you want? I'm carrying little enough worth robbing, except a hare or two."

Unnoticed, Will Scarlet had stepped up beside the Sheriff's horse. De Rainault eyed him with distaste and put his hand into the folds of his robe. He pulled out a small purse and held it out to Scarlet, who took it with a grin.

"It's all I have."

Scarlet shook his head and tutted, the knife in his hand indicating the Sheriff's hand. De Rainault flexed his fingers, pulled off several gold rings and tossed them to the outlaw. Scarlet touched the knife against his forehead in a mock salute, catching sight of the hares and pigeon dangling from the cadge as he turned to go.

"I'll have those too, if you don't mind," he said.

The falconer stepped forward to help his assistant untie the game.

De Rainault turned in his saddle, enjoying the look of fear in Thomas' eyes. "May I present my new steward, Thomas of Twickenham," he said.

Robert gave a mock bow. "I hope you fair better than your predecessor, Thomas."

"Gisburne bought it upon himself, Wolfshead," snarled de Rainault.

"You left him to rot at the King's pleasure, a fine reward for his years of service," Robert replied.

De Rainault peered into the undergrowth on either side of the track. "I see some new faces among you."

"Desperate times, Sheriff, breed desperate men."

De Rainault lifted his head and threw his voice out across the track. "To those of you thinking of making outlawry a permanent occupation I tell you this: You have until Easter to return to your families. After this date any man found to be associated with these Wolfsheads will hang. His family will be hunted down and burned out of their homes and the villages that offer them shelter will be fined. Heavily fined."

Selwyn and Ulfe slipped from their cover and took their places on either side of Robert.

"My wife died over the winter Sheriff, weak from childbed and from lack of food. You took all our grain for the King," Selwyn spat.

"Aye," said Ulfe "And your steward burned my village last year because they wouldn't turn over a young girl for his pleasures." He raised his bow, threateningly.

De Rainault bowed his head and sighed theatrically. "Well, Gisburne is gone and I cannot seek restitution for his crimes, I can only promise you that my new steward..." he swept his arm back at Thomas, "has been briefed to leniency, isn't that so?"

"I...I..yes, my l...lord Sheriff," Thomas stuttered, his eyes still on the weapon trained at the Sheriff's heart.

Robert smiled. "Your threats and bribes don't work here, Sheriff. "

"As much I am enjoying this reunion, I fear I must cut it short." Nonchalantly, de Rainault turned his back on the armed men, pushed his horse past Thomas and rode back along the track to bestir his missing soldiers. Will stared after him in disbelief.

"Do you think he's missed us?"

The outlaws laughed and before the eyes of the astonished steward, melted away into the trees.


	14. Chapter 14

Gisburne turned his back on the burning hamlet and spurred his horse after Henry's.

"Perhaps the King will reward us when we tell him of the havoc we've wreaked on his behalf," Henry said, dolefully.

Gisburne cast a sideways glance at him. "If you believe that, you do not know King John."

"Little enough to show for four months hard living," said de Verrier.

"I told you Wales was a godforsaken country," Gisburne agreed. "John should leave it for the Welsh."

Approaching the west coast where Wales faced Ireland across a harsh sea they had found many small towns and hamlets far richer than those of the South and East. Several quick raids had bought gold and supplies, but it was a paltry amount compared to the devastation they left in their wake. One of the man at arms peeled away from the main group and cantered back towards them.

"My Lord, horsemen are approaching."

Gisburne placed his hand on his sword.

"English horsemen or Welsh, Robard?" demanded de Verrier.

Robard shrugged. "Couldn't tell, Sir. Flying a grey flag with a red cross at the centre."

"Very well, tell the others to halt while they come abreast of us."

As they caught up with the rest of the men Gisburne studied the newcomers through narrowed eyes.

"Who are they, Guy?"

"Crusaders, but I don't recognise the order. Not Templars or Hospitalliers."

The eight knights slowed their horses as they approached. Helms covered their faces, their swords half drawn. The leader steadied his horse, approaching them warily.

"Hail, friends," he said in accented English. "I am Sir Maurice of Hochkirch. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Sir Edward Molyneaux," said Gisburne, deciding he'd prefer to remain anonymous. "Rather far from home aren't you, my Lord."

Hochkirch removed his helm. He was of middle years, grey haired with a softly curling beard. "As are you, Sir Knight."

De Verrier pushed forward. "I am Sir Arthur...of Bullenhirstly, Sir Maurice. We have supplies, perhaps we can offer you some refreshment?"

Gisburne stared at him in amazement and stifled a laugh. They were on the side of a mountain with nothing to sit upon but their horses and Arthur was acting as lord of the manor. Hochkirch however nodded.

"We could use a short break from the saddle," he said and signalled to his men to sheath their weapons.

"We passed a stream, just by those trees back there, for the horses." De Verrier was out of the saddle and rummaging through his saddle bags, pulling out a skin of wine recently liberated from the burning town. Gisburne glanced back over the trees, but no smoke was visible.

Hochkirch threw his leg over his horse and dismounted, handing the reins to another knight. A third came to join them, removing a fancy, plumed helm to reveal a young, lean face, a white scar puckering his left cheek.

"My aide, Sir Leopold." Hochkirch accepted the wineskin and took a long slug from it.

"Are you part of King John's peace mission?" Leopold asked.

"We have been in Ireland these past few months, news travels slowly there." Gisburne cast a warning glance at Arthur. "It seems we have missed much."

Leopold raised a sceptical eyebrow. "We come from Snowdonia," he said. "Prince Llewelyn had just returned there from the court of King John. Passed Easter with him at Cambridge to cement their renewed friendship. You'll be wanting to hurry back if you don't want to miss all the fun."

"Fun?" said Guy.

"Your King is planning to renew his war with Philip of France," said Leopold, with a sly grin. "They are mustering men from across the country to fight."

"In that case, Sir Edward, we'd best head home, don't you agree?" Arthur said with a grin.

"As fast as we can, Sir Arthur." Guy kept his face straight with some difficulty.

Leopold took the wine skin from his uncle. "We've passed several pillaged towns on our way here." He held Gisburne's eyes as he tipped wine into his mouth. "I suggest you keep your eyes open for mercenaries."

He made to pass the skin back to Gisburne, holding onto it for a second too long, so that Guy could read the suspicion in his eyes. "Come, Sir Maurice, we need to get moving."

"Indeed, we can get a couple more hours riding in before nightfall." Hochkirch's horse was bought back to him and he took the bridle, thanking them both profusely for the wine. Gisburne mounted Fury and came alongside the Crusader as he lifted himself laboriously into his saddle. As he swung his right leg up and over it caught at the flap of the bulging saddlebag, lifting it open for a second. Gisburne held his breath. The bag was stuffed full of gold coin. Hochkirch sat with a grunt, his horse starting forward at the weight. The flap dropped back into place, hiding the contents and Gisburne averted his gaze from the bag.

"Good travelling to you," Hochkirch lifted his helm over his greying head.

"And to you, Sir Maurice." De Verrier raised his hand in a salute. The Crusader's moved off and were soon lost amongst the trees.

"Did you see?" Gisburne said, his eyes never leaving the disappearing horses.

"What?"

"The gold; did you see it? A saddlebag full of it on the old man's horse. And each of those other seven with a similar pack on his beast."

De Verrier let out his breath in a whistle. "We are three times stronger than they."

"It would be a crime against the church...and God."

De Verrier let out a soft laugh. "You have a conscience, Guy?"

"None to speak of." Gisburne glanced at the soldiers behind them. "But what of our men?"

De Verrier turned and in hushed tones told the men what they had seen. "Any of you think this a bad idea, walk away now," he said.

Several broad grins broke out but no one moved.

"We follow them until they make camp tonight, then we take it all."

Gisburne found himself grinning and de Verrier eyed him curiously.

"Bullenhirstly?" he asked at last.

"Next time you decide to travel incognito give me some warning." Arthur sniffed, in a pretence of hurt. "At the very least I'll become an Earl for a day."


	15. Chapter 15

Marion slipped the cover over the white slatted beehive and took a step back. She nodded in satisfaction. It had been several years since she'd taken honeycomb from a hive, but she hadn't lost the skill. Moving away she pulled off the leather gloves and fine muslin veil that had protected her. The white bricks of the Priory reflected the glare of the weak sun but she didn't need to squint to recognise the rolling gait of the figure that was hurrying down the slope towards her.

She sighed. Brother Tuck, on the pretext of hearing her confession. The poor man had not missed a day yet. She paused beside Sister Edith's bean patch to wait, studying the tall plants, their scarlet buds still in encased in green.

"Tuck, you need not come every day," she said reprovingly, as he reached her, slightly out of breath from the incline and his own great weight.

He smiled but said nothing as they began their daily walk along the path that led into the herb garden. One of the nuns, kneeling in a patch of rosemary, called a greeting, then rose stiffly and moved her tools to a further part of the garden, giving them privacy. They sat on a stone bench; in a recess that had become theirs over the weeks. Tuck spoke first.

"You didn't tell me Robin had been tovisit you."

"Yes. Several weeks ago."

"You refused to see him."  
"Yes," Marion found she couldn't bear to look at him, to see the sadness in his kindly face.

"Marion, are you set on joining the Sisters here?"

At last she turned to him. Despite his bulk he had lost weight. His cassock, usually meticulously darned, was torn and mudstained. Sister Edith had told her that he slept in the woods a mile along the Halstead road to be near her. Dark pouches cushioned his eyes, which shone brightly, almost feverishly, from his pale moon-shaped face. On impulse she loosed the ties of the fine grey cloak her father had bought her as a gift and slipped it over his shoulders. He clutched at it gratefully.

"Go back to them, Tuck. They need you more than I," she said gently.

His hand covered hers, "They need you too, Marion."

She shook her head and looked across the garden to where Sister Helen was bent over her work. The grey habit with its white border would be hers one day, her auburn curls cropped and the stubble hidden beneath a wimple. She would leave the world and embrace the peace of the order.

"You agreed to marry him."

"It seemed...right...at the time."

"But you accepted him as our leader, Marion."

"What else could I do? I accepted him to make it easier for all of you. It was Robin's wish. He said that I must keep going, that his death was not the end."

She heard Tuck struggling to keep the shock from his voice. "Don't you love him?"

Marion sighed. "I can't answer that Tuck. I loved Robin of Loxley. I love him still. And Robert is not Robin." She had dreamed of him again last night, tall and fine boned, his dark hair feathering her cheek as he embraced her. _We will see each other again_, he had said. How could she explain to Tuck. How could she tell him that her life revolved around a whisper in the night. She would not allow him to suffer for her choices.

She stood up, shaking his hand from hers, her resolve hardening. If he were to find out about the child growing in her belly he would try to persuade to return to Robert, and that she could not face.

"I must prepare myself for the novitiate and being reminded of my life beyond these walls is too distracting. I will send for you, in time. Until then I will have the Abbess instruct the sisters to turn you away if you attempt to see me."

She could not look at him. Could not bear to see his face, so dear and familiar, crumple at her words. He had known her longer even than Robin, but she must push him away from her now. She must push away all these things. Even the whispers in the night.

"If you wish to help me, then go back to the others."

Her eyes sparkled with tears that she would not shed. Not here in this quiet garden, with its drowsy bees and the cloying scent of lavender and rosemary. "Please Tuck." She had made up her mind and would not let him change it.

"If you ever need me Little Flower..."

The endearment almost broke her. She steadied her voice. " I know where to find you."

She watched him turn, his shoulders hunched by defeat, as he made his way back up to the Priory, not even greeting Ann as she made her way down the slope towards Marion.


	16. Chapter 16

Sending ahead two of their best trackers they kept a wary distance from the group of Crusaders. As night set in the two scouts came running back along the path to report that the small band had made its camp about a mile up the track. Taking the horses as close as they dared Gisburne went on ahead with one of the scouts. The Crusaders had made camp close to a stream that ran out of a narrow, rocky defile and into a wide pool. The defile was steeply wooded and overlooked the small group of white tents. Six of the men lounged around looking exhausted, drinking and talking softly. The other two, one he noted was Leopold, were walking around the site they'd chosen, glancing up every so often at the wooded slope and across the pool.

It seemed Leopold was unhappy with the chosen site, for he strode across to Hochkirch and spoke rapidly with him, then shrugged as if in defeat when the old man firmly shook his head. Gisburne could understand his unhappiness. The site, perhaps picked by Hochkirch for its proximity to the water, would be hard to defend. The trees offered cover to would be attackers and the pool would block off a quick retreat. But after glaring angrily up at the defile for some minutes, Leopold set two men to watch the perimeter and stalked to his tent.

Gisburne eased his way back to the others, his plan already decided. Two hours before first light he studied the arraignment of his men with satisfaction. He had learnt a thing or two from those wolfsheads in Sherwood he thought to himself. The men at arms, split into two groups and dismounted, waited at the outskirts of the camp, hidden in the trees on each end of the track. De Verrier had insisted that the Welsh longbowmen were set up on top of the defile, under cover of the trees. Gisburne, de Verrier and the other five of their band waited within sight of the longbowmen, on the gentler slope of the defile. They would attack on horseback to wipe out whomever the archers left standing. With the deep pool from the stream behind them and the steep defile studded with archers to one side, the Crusaders had no place to go but up or down the track; and on either side of that waited the men at arms.

At first light the two sentries left their posts to stir the fire to life and prepare a meagre breakfast. Leopold left his tent fully dressed, a scowl still etched across his features. Slowly the camp came to life. The men by the pool ate quickly and packed their things. The men above them watched silently and waited. At last the Crusaders were ready to leave.

De Verrier clapped a hand to Guy's shoulder. "Now, my friend, I'll show you the true value of the Welsh archer," he whispered.

He signalled to the five longbowmen, who removed their helmets and unwound the coils they kept wrapped around them. Guy watched Gwilym, nearest him, push the heavy yew stave into the ground against his left foot, slip a loop at the top of the coil over the upper end, then nock it to the bottom hook. Grasping the bow firmly near the top with his right hand and catching at the second loop in the string he put pressure onto the stave so that the string slid up it and into the top nock with a soft, taut hum. At a signal from Henry the five men skirted the lip of the outcrop, silently tracking the horsemen below. Within minutes they raised their bows and took aim. Gwilyn stood at their front.

"Steady, lads," he murmured. "Loose!"

Five arrows sped from five bows, accurate and deadly. Gisburne saw three of the horsemen below them fall, knocked forward by the force of the blows. The horses shied and whinnied causing the other Crusaders to wheel and turn. A second deadly hail of arrows rose and fell. A fourth Crusader took three in the chest and spun backwards from the saddle. Gisburne fixed his eyes on Leopold, identifiable by his tall white plume, and saw him unseated by a blow to the shoulder. His heel caught in the stirrup and he was dragged away by his white-eyed horse. The remaining three horsemen searched the cliffside but could see nothing under the cover of the trees.

"I'll take the far right. Bran, Caradoc, the left. Rhodri, Heddiog, take down the last man standing."

The arrows had flown before Gwilym finished speaking, the remaining Crusaders knocked from their saddles. Awestruck, Gisburne watched one of the Crusaders struggle to his hands and knees and attempt to crawl only to collapse again. It had taken barely a few moments and their men on the ground had not yet left the cover of the trees.  
Leaning far back in the saddle he let Fury pick his own path down the steep slope and through the trees and surveyed the devastation on the valley floor. The wounded Crusader attempted to rise again but could not find the strength. Guy signalled Henry to his side.

"Take half the men and search for that other one. He won't get far with an arrow in his back."

Henry nodded curtly and called orders to his men. Starting from the gaping hole that the panicked horse had torn in the undergrowth, they fanned out and began to track the animal. Gisburne and de Verrier dismounted as the other soldiers caught the Crusaders' horses and checked the saddle bags. Guy turned up the flap of the one nearest him. It was loaded with gold and silver plate.

"This one's full of coins," de Verrier exclaimed.

Gisburne looked up to see him standing beside Hochkirch's destrier. As he spoke, a small casket fell from the saddle bag, hitting the earth with a dull thud.

The wounded Crusader groaned and tried to rise again. Blood bubbled from his mouth. Gisburne put his foot against the Crusader's neck, pinning him to the ground.

"Where are you bound?"

"To Rome and then for the Holy Land."

"What is your business here?"

The man's eyes darted to the overturned box in the middle of the path, but he said nothing. Gisburne increased the pressure on his throat. The man flailed and choked, hands scrabbling at the boot that cut off his air. Gisburne relaxed the pressure.

"The gold is from Llewelyn, for the Pope, to ensure his support against the King if hostilities should break out again," the man spluttered.

Arthur approached the box and uprighted it. A look of horror came over the man's face.

"No!" he rasped.

"What's in the box?" Gisburne demanded, his eyes narrowing.

"Do not open it, I beg you." He choked again as the boot increased its pressure.

"Answer me!"

"It is an amulet, a pagan relic, found on the Holy Island of the Druids. Prince Llewelyn bade us to take it to his holiness." Gisburne removed his foot, "For what purpose?"

The man raised his hand to his neck, massaging the red raw skin tenderly. "He said it holds great power and must not fall into the wrong hands."

Arthur drew back the lid, bent over the box and removed a smaller box from inside.

"Superstitious nonsense," Gisburne said, but the man's eyes swivelled on him in terror.

"I beg you, my Lord, let me up. Keep the gold but for the love of Christ let me take the amulet to Rome. I beg you..."

Pulling out his dagger Gisburne bent and slipped it expertly between the man's ribs and into his heart. The man's arms clawed at him briefly, then fell away as he died with a soft hiss of breath. Wiping the dagger clean he looked up and caught de Verrier's eye.

"We can't afford witnesses," he said, brusquely.

De Verrier shrugged and came towards him with the box. It was made of plain, dark wood, unpolished and unpatterned.

"Let's see what he was willing to give his life for."

De Verrier lifted the lid and both men bent to see inside. Plush red velvet lined the interior and a pungent perfume, reached Guy's nostrils. Folded inside the scarlet cloth was a silver cross. De Verrier picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The reflection played across his face, catching deep in his eyes.

"It's beautiful," he whispered.

Gisburne put out a hand to take it from him, but pain overtook him. A sharp, shooting pain blasting through his shoulder. Gulnar's voice echoed in his head.

_Now, you belong to Fenris._

He drew his shaking hand back and the pain subsided to a gentle burning. Arthur, still engrossed in the cross, had not noticed his reaction.

"A pretty ornament," Gisburne said, rubbing his shoulder. "Our real prize is in those bags." He went over to the nearest saddle bag and pulled it towards him. It was heavy and clinked as he moved it. Lifting the flap he gasped as he peered inside.

De Verrier knelt beside him and gave a disbelieving laugh. The bag was filled with jewellery encrusted with precious gemstones.

"There is a small fortune here," he whispered in awe. There were seven bags in all; each one loaded with riches. "Where do you think it came from?"

"Who cares." Gisburne smiled. "It belongs to us now."

"Half of it belongs to the King." De Verrier replaced the strange amulet in the box. Snapping the lid shut he placed it into the saddle bag, his hand hovering for a moment as if reluctant to let it go.

"What John doesn't see, he can't know about can he," Guy answered practically.

He watched as their men turned over the dead bodies, stripping off good cloth and useful pieces of mail. One crowed as he found a small bag of gold and shared it out amongst the others. Another man slipped a fancy dagger into his belt. The dead Crusaders were dumped, half naked, away from the track and covered with leaves and branches. He noticed de Verrier eyeing Hochkirch's destrier.

"Take it," he said. "Far superior to the broken down old nag you ride now."

De Verrier frowned. "Someone might recognise it."

"Then tell them you bought it at a knock down price from one of those towns back there."

Henry came crashing back through the undergrowth. "We lost him, my Lord. He regained his horse and forded the river." He stopped to gain his breath back.

Gisburne swore savagely. "He could identify us."

"We can pick up the trail again, but it could take half a day and by then..." Henry shrugged.

"No, we head home," Gisburne said, reining in his anger. "The men will be paid well for this Henry, but we need to lay the bulk of this treasure away for some time."

Henry nodded his understanding. "I'll get the rest of the men together. We'll be ready to go shortly, Sir."

He turned back to de Verrier who was bent over Hochkirch studying the arrow wound in his chest. "Shame about the old man, I liked him," de Verrier was saying.

Hochkirch's eyes opened, he gripped the front of Arthur's mail and pulled him down into an embrace. "God will burn your soul for this," he rasped, his eyes feverishly bright as they stared from one man to the other. Gisburne was at Arthur's side in an instant, struggling to pull the old man away. Hochkirch moved easily; he was dead. De Verrier clutched his leg where a tiny ornamental dagger protruded.

"God damn, I take that back!" he cursed. "The old bastard looked dead from where I stood."

Gisburne looked down at the body. "I'd say he is now."

"You can go check this time," grimaced de Verrier.

Gisburne laughed, a long, exultant sound. "It's only a flesh wound and Arthur - we're rich." He placed a mailed hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Rich." he said again. It had a sweet sound to it.


	17. Chapter 17

Simon de Belleme picked up the silver chalice and drank deeply. White runes written in chalk formed a circle on the floor before him and five robed acolytes represented the points of the pentacle that enclosed it. Brother Hubert stood before the Baron, his tonsured head thrown back as he led an ancient chant. Magic crackled in the air as a dark force gripped each acolyte.

"From where thou art hidden I call thee forth. From thy place of torment and damnation I call thee forth." The Baron shouted the words above the foul, howling wind that filled the chamber.

Within the runes something began to appear. Indistinct at first, a shadow only, it drew form from the ancient runes and from the life of the acolytes that surrounded it. The first acolyte slipped to the ground, his life force sucked from him. A second acolyte crumpled. The shape grew, huddled around itself like a foetus in the womb. Limbs became clearer, legs and arms grew out of the amorphous mass. The figure lifted itself upright, more human by the minute, as another acolyte fell and then a fourth. The last monk, his eyes blank, rapture etched across his face, remained; the youngest and strongest of the five. His limbs trembled. Sweat ran from his face. His eyes shot back into his head so that only the whites remained visible and then, with a soft sigh, like air from a bloated corpse, he died.

The figure within the runes stretched lazily. He appeared of short stature, but only because he held himself strangely, bent at the knees and waist, giving his movements a smooth, swaying motion. His tattered cloak, covering a wolf's pelt, was rank and matted with dirt. He drew back the hood of the cloak, the torchlight reflecting on the shiny baldness of his head.

"Gulnar of the Dark Path," said the Baron. "We can help each other."

The foul creature sniffed the air, his eyes never leaving de Belleme's face. "Why should I help you?" he said.

"I have bought you back from the hell you were banished to."

"And now I will make my own way."

"You are weak," de Belleme stated calmly.

"As are you, Sorcerer," Gulnar hissed. "Herne the Hunter has stolen much from us both." A piteous note entered his voice. "His son killed my child."

"A golem, a creature of dark magic that attempted to kill you," de Belleme said with contempt.

"But as my creation, he held much of myself in him. That died also. All gone." Tilting his head to one side he bared his long, yellowed teeth in a parody of a sorrow.

"You will help me," said the Baron. He flicked his wrist casually. Gulnar's eyes widened. He writhed, letting out a shriek of pain.

"Stop!" he begged.

The Baron lowered his arm, a cruel smile narrowing his lips. "You are bound to me, as I am bound within these walls. We are caught in a place between life and death. Now, tell me what you heard in that dark place you inhabit."

Gulnar snapped his head upright and glared at de Belleme. "The heir to the Hooded Man will be born some months hence, not far from here, one of his own blood. If you were to take the child and train him to your own ways, he would be a formidable weapon against the powers that deny you your freedom." Gulnar swayed nearer to him, holding out his hands in supplication. "I once worshipped at the feet of Arianrhod, Goddess of the Moon, and you will need Her power to travel beyond these walls. You were trapped here by Herne and by the power of the Silver Arrow, but Arianrhod has power over the fate of the dead. She can be persuaded through the power of her amulet to release you into the world of men once more."

"You are well informed of my plans."

Gulnar grinned hideously. "We have friends in common, oh Great Lord."

De Belleme nodded slowly. "You have the gift of Seeing. I could use that also. What do you gain from this...alliance?"

"Your protection. And my vengeance. You will let me kill the Hooded Man." Gulnar stepped further into the room, his filthy cloak sweeping the floor. De Belleme lifted a square of scented cloth to his nose as Gulnar's stench reached him.

"The Hooded Man shall be yours," he said after a long moments thought. "But the Horned One is mine." 


	18. Chapter 18

The horsemen rode upon Newark from the west. They were a ragged bunch, their clothes bloodstained and threadbare. The sun, which had burnt fiercely all day, now struggled to make its heat felt through the rising haze that obscured it, glinting dully on their helmets and mail. Reaching the crest of a small rise, they paused and gazed across the flat expanse at the city of Newark. To the south undulated low hills. Above, to the north, the River Trent divided itself in two. It's narrower sister reached under the City's walls to pass the castle, carrying away the settlement's effluence and emerging as a sluggish, muddied snake on the other side.

Spurring their horses on they crossed the last mile and entered the city through Baldretongate, crossing Marketsted and heading up the crowded streets for the castle. It was Sunday, market day. The men pushed their way through the crowds leaving grumbling merchants in their wake. But nobody grumbled too loudly. The men held themselves easily in the saddle, their horses' heads hanging low as they covered this last part of their long journey. Their faces, shadowed and unshaven, brooked no argument.

As they rode into the castle yard a servant rushed to meet them, baulking at asking their business when he saw the hard faces beneath the helmets. The lead man dismounted and pulled away his helm, his blond hair whipping free in the wind. His blue eyes calmly surveyed his surroundings. His companion joined him, easing himself carefully from the saddle, wincing at a wound to his thigh. He was not as tall as the first; his wound caused him to stoop a little. His eyes were grey, his hair darker than that of his companion.

The blond man looked across the yard taking in the ramshackle forecourt and caught sight of a red uniform with three golden lions emblazoned on the front.

"You there!" he called.

The soldier turned, annoyance plain on his face.

"I wish to speak with Lord William de Chambray."

"He is with the King."

"Good, my business is with the King also."

The soldier took in the arrogant stance of the young man and shrugged. "I'm a busy man," he said. "You can wait."

The blond man crossed the distance between them and gripped his arm, twisting slightly to make it hurt. The soldier's eyes widened at the pain. He was pulled close and a harsh voice grated in his ear.

"I have gold for the King; do you think that will wait?"

Released from the vice-like grip the soldier staggered backwards. "Yes, sir," he said. "I'll have someone announce you immediately." He turned as fast as he could, then turned back. "Your name, Sir?"

"I am Sir Guy of Gisburne and that is Arthur de Verrier."

"Yes, sir!" The soldier hurried into the castle to find a herald to announce them. De Verrier limped over, his teeth gritted against the pain.

"You should rest that leg, " Gisburne said. Arthur's face was pasty with a light film of sweat; the wound that Hochkirch had inflicted on him was refusing to heal. "I'll send one of the men into town for the physic."

"Brother Hubert is skilled with herbs. Better him than some quack."

Gisburne nodded, the physic in Newark doubled as the town's butcher. He did not come highly recommended. De Verrier patted the bulging saddlebag that sat across Fury's rump.

"Are you sure we've been generous enough with his majesty's share?"

"We put in the richer items, he won't complain," Gisburne answered and set about undoing the straps. "We'll pick up the rest in a few months when time allows." Unnoticed by Arthur he pulled the wooden casket that contained the strange amulet from the folds of his cloak and slipped it into the saddlebag.

"Lord William will see you now, Sir." The soldier had returned, his face more respectful. The two men followed him into the castle.

Newark's Great Hall was as vast as a cathedral, the vaulted ceiling disappearing in a haze of blue smoke from the cooking fires. The room was packed with men and servants, a babble of noise. Men ate standing up; they conversed in small groups, harassed passing servants. Dogs barked and fought over scraps of bone. The air held the acrid reek of sweat and wood smoke and burnt meat. The soldier led them to the dais at the far end of the room. Here the throng was denser still and then they were through into the space around the King. Above on the dais stood the long table, John's ornate wooden throne dominating the scene, flanked by four smaller, plainer chairs. Behind him was a vast standard of red with the rampant golden lions of England. Grouped at the foot of the stone steps were five prelates.

"I will not make Langton Archbishop of Canterbury," John was saying. "The Pope has excommunicated me, what more can he do."

One of the prelates stepped forward. "Lord King, while we are under interdict the people are without religious guidance."

"He has decided to allow you to give the viaticum to the dying. Surely a sign that he is buckling to my wishes?" John sat forward. He was in his late forties now, the once wolfish face running to fat. His sandy hair receded from his brow and thinned across the pate beneath the thick gold crown that he wore. "If you do not like the situation, des Roches, you are free to run abroad like those other cowards. But I warn you; your properties will be forfeit to me."

Inthe shadows behind the chairs upon the dais Gisburne recognised the lined face of the monk who had delivered their orders. He bent towards an older man who was looking in their direction. After a few quiet words the monk came down the steps towards them.

"Sir William calls you forward," said Brother Hubert.

William de Chambray was a great hulk of a man, barrel-chested and muscular. His square face, pocked and scarred by campaigns under the Lionheart, was topped with a cap of steel grey hair. His arms, leant now on the table, were short but powerful looking. Waiting for a convenient pause in the conversation he caught the King's attention. John turned and looked at them, recognition is his eyes as they found Gisburne. He answered de Chambray quietly then turned to his court and rose.

"Gentlemen excuse me. I have business to attend to in my chambers. We will continue this debate at supper."

As the King and his entourage swept away up the Hall,a servant ushered Gisburne and de Verrier through a small door near the dais that led up several narrow flights of steps to the King's chambers. De Chambray beckoned them forward.

"My Liege, these two men-"

"Yes, yes, William, I remember."The Kingturned to them. "I sent several forces into Wales. Yours is the only one to return. I understand that you were successful?"

Gisburne pulled forward the saddle bag, lifting the flaps so that the King could see the spark of gold within. John's eyes lit up with greed, then came to rest on Gisburne's face.

"You used to work for de Rainault," he said.

"I was his steward, My Liege."

The King turned to de Chambray. "Gisburne was the first to declare for me when my brother died."

De Chambray bowed, "Both a sad and joyous day, my Lord King."

"Who is this other young Knight?"

"Not a knight, my Lord. My squire, Arthur de Verrier."

"Not a Knight?" The king looked astounded. "Why not? He is the right age."

De Chambray looked at Arthur in surprise, as if noticing him properly for the first time. "He's not yet twenty, my Lord," he said.

The king's small blue eyes narrowed as he motioned for the saddle bag to be placed before him. He opened it and drew out the first object that came to hand, a gold cross inlaid with emeralds. The stones cast a greenish pallor across his face. He smiled and looked at the two young men before him.

"Up. Up." He motioned with his hand. They rose, Arthur staggering slightly as he put weight on his leg.

"Tomorrow I will hold an accolade for you," he said. "You shall be knighted for services rendered."

Arthur bowed his head, "Thank you, My Liege."

"Well, Gisburne, what can be done for you?"

Gisburne did not hesitate. "There is a small matter, My Liege."

The King delved deeper into the bag. He pulled out the wooden box and studied it with interest. "Yes? What is it?"

"A few months ago I had the misfortune to find myself in gaol herein Newark."

This caught the King's attention. "Are you sure it is wise to remind me of that, Gisburne?"

"I wish to know who paid my fine, My Liege."

"I have no idea. The man who bought the money was merely a servant. Strict instructions were given that the identity of the donor was to remain secret." The King stroked his beard, eyeing Gisburne narrowly, his curiosity piqued.

De Chambray leant forward. "Leave it with me, Sire, I have a man who is good at tracking such information."

King John nodded and turned his attention back to the box. Lifting the lid, he pulled out the amulet and held it up. Gisburne heard a soft gasp from Arthur, a movement and the tension as he restrained himself. Sensing that they were dismissed the two men left the chamber to wait outside. Before Arthur could voice his question Sir William joined them, Brother Hubert trailing in his shadow.

"Congratulations Arthur, tomorrow you become a Knight of the Realm."

Arthur smiled weakly. Gisburne turned to de Chambray. "My Lord, The wound to Arthur's leg needs tending. Can you recommend anyone?"

De Chambray ran his eyes over Gisburne's stained cloak, the shoddily repaired mail. "My ward's chaplain, Brother Hubert is skilled with herbs. I will send him to you. I have rented a small house in Newark, perhaps you will take Arthur there to rest. He'll need to visit a chapel and prepare for the dubbing."

Gisburne bowed. "We'll see you on the morrow, my Lord."

"Be here early Gisburne, the King will not tolerate tardiness."

By the time they found the townhouse Arthur looked exhausted as he lowered himself into a cushioned chair by the fire.

"I cannot rest Guy, there is much to do," he said, but made no attempt to rise.

"You will rest," Gisburne stated. "I'll make all the necessary preparations. Sleep now. I will wake you for the cleansing and find a priest for your confession. One of the servants here can tell us which is the best chapel. Do you think you are up to an all night vigil? Perhaps the King can be persuaded to postpone your accolade- "

De Verrier struggled to sit up. "You will ask for no such thing, Guy! I will need to buy another horse, some better armour."

"I'll take care of it, we have the money now."

"And a page, by God! I must have a page to carry my things."

"There were plenty of eager young lads hanging about the King's court; I'll find you one."

Arthur looked at him, his eyes feverish in the firelight and the question Gisburne had been dreading since their audience with the King came.

"The amulet," Arthur said weakly. "Why did you give it to the King?"

"It was worthless," Gisburne said, turning away from the younger man. He had seen Arthur take the silver cross from its box several times during the journey home and the fascination had worried him. He was glad it was gone. "We must fast and spend the night in prayer, so get some rest now or you'll not be able to stand come the morning."

Arthur nodded and sank back against the chair. The firelight played over his face which was now flushed and sweaty. Gisburne hoped fervently that de Chambray had remembered to speak to the chaplain. 


	19. Chapter 19

"Robin Hood returns then?" Hugo's mouth was drawn in its customary sneer. "It was too much to hope for that he would stay dead." 

De Rainault sighed and placed his booted feet upon the table, amongst the remnants of their late supper. "It is good news, brother."

Hugo stared at him as if he had lost his mind. "What in Heaven's name do you mean?"

"The forest has become a far more dangerous place in the months he's been away. All kinds of cutthroats and desperate men have congregated there. I wouldn't venture too deep myself without a full complement of men. At least Robin Hood kept a rein on these vagabonds."

The Abbott picked at his teeth with a splinter of bone from his plate. "I have to say, Robert, you have not helped matters by forcing the people so hard. I have had constant complaints about the heaviness of the tithe on top of what you've been taking from them."

De Rainault nodded thoughtfully. "You are quite right. Perhaps it is time for some leniency in the matter." He turned to Thomas, busy with a piece of parchment. "I want the river tolls lowered; not too much you understand, but generous enough. And the taxes, though I can't spare too much there, I am accountable to the King after all."

Thomas nodded and began to scribble hurriedly on a fresh piece of parchment.

"I am sure my brother will want a similar document written up regarding the tithes at St Mary's." He met Hugo's angry glare with a smile. "Come, come brother, it was your idea after all. And while you are at it Thomas, I want a proclamation drawn up, placing a bounty of five hundred marks on the head of Robin Hood."

Hugo snorted in laughter. "Five hundred marks? How will you explain that to the King after claiming bankruptcy?"

"Because any man who wishes to win the bounty must pay me one hundred marks. Think on it as an entrance fee to the competition."

"It'll never work; you've tried similar plans before Robert."

"Maybe it won't work, but it'll keep the Wolfshead busy, perhaps help to clear some of these other thieves from Sherwood. It'll line my pocket and it'll increase the income of the town burghers as any would be bounty hunters will need places to eat and sleep in Nottingham or its outlying villages. All desirable results."

Hugo spat a piece of dislodged food onto his plate and stabbed at it suspiciously with the bone splinter. "You could send the more holy ones to St Mary's to pray. God knows we could do with some richer traffic. All we've had lately are a lot of monks from some obscure order on some equally obscure pilgrimage. They eat our food, pray at our shrines and never a coin do we see in return."

"You are there to offer succour to the pilgrim Hugo."

"But the richer variety is always preferable."

De Rainault gave Hugo a look of disgust as the latter picked another morsel of food from his teeth. "No doubt some of the young bloods attracted by the bounty will bring their women folk. Why don't you set up a shrine for them? St Winifrid or Mary Magdalene perhaps," he said.

Hugo rolled his eyes. "Magdalene was a whore Robert."

"Didn't seem to bother Christ now did it."

Hugo scowled at him but had to agree the idea was sound. He would put one of his priests to work on finding a suitable saint.


	20. Chapter 20

Gisburne shivered and pulled his cloak tightly about him. The little chapel was damp and mildewed, shadows dancing across the walls as the candles guttered in the draughts from the windows. He was glad to be back in Newark. More than that, he was relieved to have passed the amulet into other hands, as though a burden had been lifted from him. He rolled his shoulders to ease the ache of standing still for so long. The pain of his wound had gone and for that too he was grateful. He did not want to hear Gulnar's voice in his head again. 

Beside him knelt de Verrier, his lips moving silently as he invoked the Saints and asked God to guide him in his journey to knighthood. Before him on the altar lay his sword and dagger, placed there to show that they would be used in the service of God.  
A scuffling noise at the Chapel entrance caused Gisburne to turn and see the young boy he had hired to act as page. The boy, just nine years old and still excited by the turn of events that had elevated him in rank, shuffled nervously from one foot to the other. Gisburne beckoned him over.

"There's a man outside, wishes to speak to you, Sir," the boy said, his voice hushed to a whisper.

Gisburne rose and followed him out, hoping that this would be de Chambray's promised chaplain. Instead, a man on a fine grey horse waited in the pool of light cast by the Chapel's torches.

"Sir Perceval Vaudrey," he said curtly, by way of introduction. "Sir William asked me to bring a spare horse for his squire." He pulled at the rope in his hand and a brown nag entered the circle of light. Her muzzle showed signs of heavy abuse, but she would do as a spare. Gisburne placed his hand against the soft muzzle of the Knight's grey.

A fine piece of horseflesh," he said. The Knight slapped a hand against the horse's neck, making the skin ripple and twitch at such heavy treatment. "An Arab horse, my father bought him back as a colt from the Holy Land."

"When you see Sir William will you remind him of his promise to send his chaplain?"

The young knight nodded down at Guy as he pulled at the reins to turn the animal. "No doubt we will see each other at the Castle."

Gisburne watched him leave still admiring the grey horse. Edwin tugged at his sleeve. He glanced down at the narrow face. The boy was the son of a merchant in the town who had paid well for the privilege of advancing him.

"The servants are drawing the bath as you requested, my Lord."

"Good, tell them to expect us as dawn breaks. And make sure your Lord's mail and tunic are cleaned and ready."

The boy bobbed a bow and left the chapel at a half run. Guy smiled to himself. The boy was excitable but would do well enough for the time being. Back in the Chapel he touched de Verrier lightly on the shoulder to break him from his prayers.

"The vigil is almost over," he said. "We must soon return to the house so you can be cleansed and dress."

Arthur nodded wearily and resumed his entreaties to the deity.


	21. Chapter 21

Robert raised the wooden beaker he held into the air. "May Herne protect us," he said. 

The men gathered around him by the fire echoed his words. Some spoke with conviction, others seemed less sure, glancing about them nervously. He took a sip of the liquid and handed the beaker to Scarlet, who sat beside him. He watched as it was passed around the fire.

Numbers had increased to thirty now and he had split the group into two smaller camps, about a half-mile apart. Days were filled with endless training, punctuated by hunting forays and the occasional robbing of a merchant, fool enough to attempt a short cut through the forest. Most of the men who were joining them were local. They knew how to use a bow, how to hunt silently and how to track. These were the most useful recruits and their skills could be passed onto those less knowledgeable.

He was aware that the tenor of the silence over the group had changed. Men were looking past him, awed expressions on their faces. He turned. Through the trees he could see the antlered figure of Herne. The forest God raised his arm and beckoned and Robert rose and followed him, until they reached the lake that encircled Herne's cave. Herne pulled the Stag's head from his own, placed it reverently in the waiting boat and gestured for the outlaw to climb in. In silence they rowed under the overhang and into the smoky darkness of the cave, beaching the boat with a soft scrape against the shale.

Robert followed Herne to the small altar stone with its tiny fire, kept burning at all times. The smoke wove its way upwards to crawl along the stone ceiling in search of an outlet, choking the air around them. On the altar lay a curious object he had not seen before, but heard much about from the others.

"The Silver Arrow," he whispered. He put out a hand to touch it. With a cry Herne, knocked his arm away.

"You must not disturb the balance." His tone was harsh. "It is all that stands between me and those who seek to do us harm."

Herne passed a hand across his eyes in a weary gesture. "Evil threatens once more," he said. "I had hoped to avoid it, but to counter what you have seen in your visions, I must prepare myself to summon aid."

"The men are improving, with time they will be a strong force," Robert said.

The old man sighed. "You cannot face these enemies alone, my son. I will summon help for you, but it is a long process. In the time it takes, your enemies will have grown in power - maybe even beyond that which I can call upon."

Herne gestured for him to sit. Grey hair straggled over his shoulders and he looked tired and careworn. Robert realised suddenly that the burdens he bore, as Herne's son, were as nothing compared to the weight that the man himself carried on his shoulders. They sat facing each other across the altar.

Drink," Herne said, passing him a horn cup.

The liquid was bitter and he drained the cup, gagging as he swallowed the residue at the bottom. Silence fell on the two men as they sat facing each other across the flames. Robert's gaze was drawn into the heart of the fire. The blackening wood glowed orange. The flames danced their shadows on the walls around him. After some time he turned and looked back at the cave mouth, startled from his reverie to see moonlight flooding over the still waters of the lake. He could not see the moon from his position, only it's twin, pale and opalescent, reflected in the water, shimmering slightly as the wind disturbed it. He turned back to Herne, to say that it was late and that the potion had not bought on a vision, but Herne was not there.

In his place on the far side of the fire, her shoulders draped by her silvery hair, a woman sat before a loom. Her head was bent over her work and he could not see her face. Rising to catch a better view of her he skirted the fire. The threads from the spindle shivered from the motion of her foot upon the pedal hidden beneath the silver frame. The clack-clack of her work filled the cave. Great waves of cloth spilled over her lap, onto the floor, acres of material covered by the rich colours that she wove into it. Moving nearer he saw movement over the cloth; people, men and women, a living breathing tapestry of life that the woman created.

A figure rose up behind her, a man in mail that spangled the firelight, blinding him. Robert's hand went to Albion's hilt: It was Gisburne. With a lazy familiarity his arm encircled the woman's neck and silver sparked as he drew up her hair in an intimate gesture, to fix the clasp of the finely wrought chain he held behind her neck. At the end of the chain a cross dangled. Unlike any cross Robert had seen it was looped at the top where the arm of a Christian cross would reach upwards. He felt the hum of its power as the woman took one hand from her weaving to touch it and the brightness of it hurt his eyes. She raised her head from her work and looked at him and her beauty was both wonderful and terrifying. With a sickening sensation in his stomach he was swept up and out of the cave and over the land.

Below him the ground shook. The force of it hit him in a concussive wave. In a direct line below him the trees separated and drew back, opening an ugly wound in the ground beneath. A great pack of hounds surged up from the crevice. Red eyes glowed, their tongues lolled, frenzied baying hammered his ears. Behind them came horsemen. The horses were black, grey or white, each uniform in its colour and the riders wore a cloak to match. They spilled upwards out of the ground after the fearsome pack and a hunting horn sounded, strident and clear across the roof of the forest. The heat of the dogs reached him, the decaying smell of their breath. He shivered as the great red eyes turned on him.

_So must it be,_ Herne said. _The Hunt must ride._

The terrible pack fanned out amongst the trees like locusts and he could not bear to watch as the land they covered turned brown, withered and died as they passed over it.

With a sense of falling he came back into his body, still disorientated by the drug. Herne watched him through the flames.

"What was that?" Robert said.

"The Cwn Annwn, Hounds of the Underworld," said Herne. He stood. "I had to be sure I was taking the right path. Did you see the horses they rode? Find me such a horse; all grey with no other colour on him, not a single hair."

Robert gave a derisive laugh. "Do you know how rare such a horse would be?"

"And a cloak, matching in colour and of the finest quality."

Robertrose, his legs unsteady from the potion. "You think things like that just walk into Sherwood?"

"There are other forces at work here," Herne said. "These things will come to you. Go back to your men. I have much to do." He turned away and shuffled into a corner of the cave where the firelight did not penetrate. Robert could hear him scraping among the things hidden there, searching for something. None the wiser about what he was to face, he turned and made his way back to the boat, deeply unsettled by all he had seen and not understood.


	22. Chapter 22

Despite the early hour, Newark's hall was already crowded by the time Gisburne and de Verrier pushed their way through to the front. Once, whilst they were waiting, Arthur clapped his hand to his mouth and staggered away. He returned shortly after with some colour in his cheeks.

"Managed not to get any puke on my surcoat," he said, grinning at Guy weakly.

At last, the crowd parted and John swept through waving an imperious hand to his subjects. Thrusting his mantle to one side he seated himself on the dais and the business of the day commenced. De Chambray seated himself beside the King as order was called. A hush fell on the crowd. On the far side of de Chambray sat a young woman, her hair covered by a white wimple, her gown a luxurious shade of green. Every so often she raised a scented cloth to her long nose and breathed in deeply, casting contemptuous glances at the rabble below her. This, Gisburne decided, must be Annys Lanfranc, de Chambray's ward.

After two cases had been heard and pronounced on, De Chambray leant to the King's ear then beckoned de Verrier forward.

"Ah, yes, the dubbing." The King sounded bored, as if the sight of the gold and jewels that had prompted such generosity the day before had worn off over night.

He rose and made his way down the steps and Arthur, a white tunic covering his armour, knelt at his feet. Gisburne shoved Edwin, the young lad he'd hired as page, hard in the back, almost sending him sprawling under the weight of Arthur's weapons that the boy carried in his arms. Recovering himself, the lad hastened to stand behind his new master, looking dazed to find himself so close to the action. John glanced around the company, seeming rather put out. Realising what was wrong Gisburne hurried forward, unsheathed his sword and, kneeling, offered it to the King.

"Thank you Gisburne, at least someone here has their wits about them." John cast a spurious glance back up to his men on the dais.

"Well?" he demanded, impatiently. "Is there a man of God in the house? This sword must be blessed."

A purple clad bishop hurried forward, laid one hand on the sword and crossed himself. "In nomine patri, et filii et spiritu sancti, amen," he muttered.

"Is that it?" John demanded and the bishop shrugged. John raised his eyes heavenward then sent the Bishop scurrying backwards with a wave of his be-ringed hand. Lowering the sword he rested the flat of the blade on Arthur's shoulder.

"I dub thee, Knight," he pronounced. After a suitable pause he shoved the sword at Gisburne and took his place back on the dais.

Unable to believe that the ceremony was over with so little aplomb Guy stared at the King, then back at Arthur, just in time to see the latter sway slightly. He stepped forward and shoved his hand under Arthur's elbow to support him, casting a desperate glance up at de Chambray as he did so. Sir William beckoned Brother Hubert forward and whispered in his ear. The monk stepped down to take de Verrier's other arm. Arthur's face was tinged green. The two men guided him through the crowd, which this time parted easily before them, muttering and speculating as they passed. Gisburne heard a clatter behind him and looked to see Edwin, struggling with his new master's belongings.

Gisburne's gaze flicked to the dais, where Annys Lanfranc sat, her mouth curving amusement as her eyes met his. She was laughing at them.

"Hurry it up boy," he growled. Edwin nodded, white-faced with nervousness. They were barely out into the courtyard before Arthur retched loudly.

"Find a litter for him, quickly, he's in no fit state to ride," Hubert ordered. "My medicine chest is being sent to the house, it should arrive before us."

Gisburne did as he was told, fetching Fury and Arthur's stolen destrier on his way back. Brother Hubert gave the Crusader's horse a curious glance, but said nothing. They manhandled Arthur into the litter and set off slowly back to the house. Once he was made comfortable in one of the tiny upstairs rooms, the monk stripped him off his clothes, muttering a soft oath as he saw the injured leg. "How long has it been this way?" Guy peered over his shoulder and recoiled at the smell. The wound was yellow and suppurating.

"I have no idea. He never said it was festering."

Brother Hubert opened his medicine chest. "Send a servant out to the midden, I need maggots, small ones that haven't gorged themselves."

"What on Earth for?"

Without turning from his rummaging in the box, the monk said, "I know my business here, do not query that."

Gisburne went out to the kitchen to find Edwin. The boy stared disbelievingly at the news that he was to root in the rubbish tip, and received a clout around the back of the head that went some way to relieving Gisburne's anger that Arthur had not been seen to sooner. Within minutes the boy returned with a bowl full of tiny white maggots, his face curious but cautious. Gisburne took the wriggling creatures back to the monk. He had begun to clean out the wound. Arthur lay on the bed moaning as Hubert touched the swollen flesh. Passing a clean piece of linen under Arthur's thigh he bade Gisburne hold the ends and shook the maggots onto the skin, covering them loosely with the muslin wrap. Guy shuddered, watching the cloth writhe with their movements.

"They will eat the rotten flesh. When they have swollen in size, I'll remove them." Hubert glanced at the open door and Guy turned to see Edwin, his mouth open in fascination and revulsion.

"Boy, have the servants bring a pallet for the floor so that I may be near Sir Arthur."

Edwin nodded and disappeared.

Gisburne took a seat out of the way and watched as the monk finish binding the wound, arranging Arthur beneath the blankets, removing the bolster from behind his head and placing it under the damaged leg.

"Where did you learn of this?" Gisburne said, curiously.

Brother Hubert finished settling Arthur and began to pack his things away. "In the Holy Land," he said. "During Richard's crusade. I was there with my old master." He glanced up at Gisburne, his hands suddenly still. "A powerful man, the Baron. He liked to ride amongst the desert tribes and learn their ways. He found them most...civilised." He glanced at Guy's shoulder. "You are also wounded."

Gisburne flexed his shoulder. It no longer ached. "Nothing to be concerned with. How did you know?"

"You still hold it a little stiffly. I can give you a salve to ease it."

Gisburne shook his head. The little room was suddenly stifling. He wanted to leave. He didn't like the way this monk looked at him, a dark, direct gaze that seemed to come from far away.

"It's well enough. I must go and see to the horses," he said curtly.

The monk looked away, the breaking of his gaze leaving Gisburne light-headed as he went out the door. 


	23. Chapter 23

William de Chambray entered his private chamber at Newark Castle and glanced at the man who awaited him. He was short and light haired, dressed in a fawn tunic and dark hose. A green woollen cloak lay folded neatly across one of the chairs. Nothing about him stood out as noticeable. From his ever changing hazel eyes to his mousy features he was unremarkable to look at. It was this that made Mark Farrier an excellent collector of information.

"Well, Mark, you have news for me?" the Duke stepped over to the table and poured his unexpected guest some wine. Mark took the goblet gratefully and drained it in one long swallow.

"Aye, my Lord." he said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. "In the matter of the Barons there are many that feel as you do. If John can keep the Welsh, Scots and Irish on our side we will stand stronger united against Philip of France."

"John is not noted for his ability to hold to military alliances."

"Indeed not. General feeling seems to be, however, that he has his finger on the pulse of local politics."

The Duke took a seat and poured himself some wine, swilling the dark liquid thoughtfully in the cup. "And the other matter? Did you find out who paid the ransom for Gisburne?"

A smile touched Mark's plain features. "Most interesting news, my lord. The man who bought the money to the King was a local Newark inn keeper. He was well paid by a man in the employ of the Bailiff of Huntingdon."

De Chambray pushed himself up in his chair, his face alive with interest. "David of Huntingdon's man? What is the Earl's connection with Gisburne, are they friends?"

"That is what's taken me so long to uncover, my Lord. Gisburne's previous lord, de Rainault, met Huntingdon on several occasions, usually crown business. But I could find no link between your man and the Earl. From what I could glean the Earl has made it clear in the past that he has no admiration for de Rainault and even less time for his steward."

"Gisburne would have been present at these meetings?"

"Aye, my Lord. As de Rainault's steward, undoubtedly."

"Did you discover anything else about Gisburne?"

"Little of interest, except that he was page to the Earl of Gloucester."

The Duke was still for a moment, deep in thought. "Keep your ears open on this matter, Mark, I want to know anything, however small it may seem."

Mark bowed and left.

De Chambray poured himself a goblet of wine, his fingers druming absently against the table. Despite his unkempt appearance, Gisburne had friends in high places. Friends related to both the Scottish and the English royalty no less. He must determine how close these friendships were, for Guy could prove useful in future negotiations with the Barons. 


	24. Chapter 24

"Why has the amulet not found it's rightful place?" The Baron turned his grey eyes on Brother Hubert.

The monk shifted uncomfortably. "I do not understand what happened, my Lord. The man came back with it as you planned, but he gave it to the King."

"Did the King touch it?"

"That's how I saw it, my Lord. He took it from its box."

"Ah!" De Belleme smiled to himself. "The last of the Devil's Brood."

Gulnar stepped from the shadows of the room, his bare feet silent on the flagstones. "You cannot regain your power without the amulet." he said.

"I sense other magics at work here. Herne the Hunter has knowledge of us. But it is of no matter. There is another way." The Baron turned back to Brother Hubert. "And the woman? You are sure she is suitable?"

Brother Hubert bowed his head so that he could avoid Gulnar's wild eyes. The magician un-nerved him. He also stank like a sewer pit.

"Yes, my Lord Baron. I have traced her lineage. She is directly descended from those who made the amulet and imbued it with the power of Arianrhod."

"Good," said the Baron softly. "Ready my men. I have work for them."

Brother Hubert exited the room, taking the stairs down to the ruin of the great hall beneath the Baron's chambers, where his Brothers were training. He watched them for a moment as they wielded their staves against each other. Fifty men in all, twisting, turning, their black robes swirling through the air; the clatter of wood against wood, the thud of stave against flesh. He smiled in satisfaction. Only a quarter of their number had answered the Baron's call, yet he could feel the others. They were on their way even now. They would be a formidable force when all had gathered and the Baron could begin his ritual. He halted their practice and passed on his master's words. He had only one day's leave left. He must head back to Newark. 


	25. Chapter 25

William de Chambray sat at the King's left hand and watched the gathering with satisfaction. David of Huntingdon was visiting his estates only a day's ride away and it had been easy to persuade the King to summon him to Newark. He watched Gisburne's head turn to the entrance of the Hall when Huntingdon's name was announced, but there was no surprise, or even great interest in his expression. The King was occupied talking to William Brewer, which left de Chambray free to follow the blond head and the white one as they circled each other around the room, sometimes close, sometimes at opposite sides, but never coming together.

His attention was caught by something that Brewer said and when he turned back to the room he saw Gisburne approach Annys. Giving him a haughty glare she turned her back on the young knight, cutting him off in mid-sentence. De Chambray smiled approvingly and noted Gisburne's red face as he looked about to see if anyone had noticed the snub. Annys had received her fair share of attention from the men here tonight and, as he watched her politely back away from another young man, he turned his thoughts to a marriage for her. These were uncertain times and a man must be careful of his alliances.

The King touched his arm. "Is that your ward?" he asked, his eyes bright with interest as they watched yet another young man bow over Annys' hand. "She looks a mettlesome piece! What do you think Brewer?"

The King's Treasurer smiled salaciously. "Can't say I blame you William, for keeping her hidden away."

De Chambray sighed and nodded, the matter of marriage becoming more urgent as the King's eyes took on a lustful glint. If Annys caught the King's attention then she must be married to prevent the scandal of a child. A King's bastard was still a bastard born, unless a well paid man could be persuaded to give the cuckoo a name.

He sat up, suddenly alert. Gisburne was making his way to the food tables at the same time as Huntingdon. For a moment he thought that they would pass each other, then Huntingdon put out a hand that stopped the younger man in his tracks. Their voices carried across to the dais.

"Guy," began the Earl and then faltered. At the touch on his sleeve, Gisburne lifted his head and de Chambray saw the surprise on his face.

"My Lord?"

David of Huntingdon regarded the knight with his steady blue gaze. "You no longer work for de Rainault, I hear."

"You hear correctly, my Lord," Gisburne answered, coolly.

Huntingdon nodded. "I hope this precipitates a good turn in your fortunes. If you have any need..." The Earl faltered again and de Chambray found his surprise mirroring Gisburne's own. He had never seen the Earl struggle with his words before.

"If there is something I could do to help you on your way, let me know." The Earl let his eyes rest on Gisburne's face for a long moment as if searching for something there and de Chambray wondered why the knight did not accept the Earl's offer.

David detached himself and moved away and as Gisburne turned, de Chambray saw the reason he had not answered; the young man's face was a picture of shock and bewilderment. Whatever the Earl's reasons for paying the ransom it seemed Gisburne was unaware of them.

Hearing de Rainault's name mentioned he turned his attention back to the King, to find Brewer addressing him.

"Have you heard about this wolfshead hunt, William? Everyone has been talking about it."

"What's that?" de Chambray asked, eyeing the Treasurer's corpulent face and struggling to hide his dislike of the man.

"De Rainault has set a bounty on the head of the outlaw, Robin Hood. Anyone can claim the prize for one hundred marks."

John gave a short laugh. "The cheek of that man! All the way through his trial he tried to persuade me that the outlaw was dead. And that steward of his also." His eyes scanned the room for Gisburne, but failed to find him.

"What a wonderful notion, my Lord King," de Chambray said hurriedly. "To hunt a stag is a noble past time, but the piquancy of putting hounds on a man's trail - quite delightful."

John drew his eyes back from the room to rest on the Duke. "It has a novel ring to it," he murmured. "What do you think Brewer? Shall we uproot the court and travel down to Clipstone?"

Brewer nodded, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "An excellent idea, my Liege. We have been at Newark long enough."

The King passed his tongue over his lips as if the savouring the idea. "Yes. And we'll stop in at Nottingham on the way, stir up that old hornet de Rainault. You must come with us, William, bring as many young hunters as you can find. The more the merrier, as they say."

"I will begin preparations immediately, my Liege." Bowing, de Chambray rose from his chair. He set off through the crowd to find Gisburne, wondering if the King had any idea of the logistics involved in moving his nomadic court around the country. However, returning to Gisburne's place of recent employment might shed more light on the man himself and that fitted his plan perfectly. Spotting the Knight, head and shoulders above the rest of the rabble, he stretched his mouth into a smile and pushed his way through. 


	26. Chapter 26

On the Nottingham road, Gisburne and an escort of thirty armed men rode alongside the King's train. Their numbers were concentrated towards the middle where the treasury wagons rode, loaded with taxes and John's personal wealth. The day had dawned clear, although a sharp wind blew through the trees stinging Guy's face.

A shout from further up the train attracted his attention. Ducking his head to avoid a tree that had branched out low over the worn track he kicked Fury into a trot. Several other guards on both sides of the wagon train followed him and the wagons ground to a halt.

By the side of the track two robed monks carried a third, whose head lolled back against his companions shoulder. One of the men threw back his hood, to reveal a young face, earnest and sallow looking.

"My brother fell, back there in the woods. Please help us," he said.

Gisburne let the other men pass him to help the monks and rose in his stirrups to swing his head up and down the line, his eyes studying the undergrowth intently. Something didn't feel right. His eyes turned back along the way he had come, to the overhanging branches. Something moved, a dark blurwithin the greenery. A sudden gust of wind made his eyes water and he blinked rapidly to clear them. There; a second black shape.

Suddenly the woods erupted and black cowled monks poured out of the trees. They carried only wooden staffs and used them to deadly effect. He saw a horse go down screaming in pain as a staff made snapping contact with its leg.

"Ambush!" he shouted. "Back down the line." This last he directed at the men who'd deserted their posts to investigate the wounded monk.

Turning his back on the chaos as the soldiers struggled to remount and turn their horses in the confines of the track, he kicked Fury into a fast trot, drawing his sword as they rode. More monks spilled out of the trees, lashing out with their staffs, others swarming over one of the wagons, black ants against the white cover.

A monk charged up the track towards him, staff angled to knock him from his horse. He dodged and sliced his blade down, scarlet misting the air in fine droplets. Two more monks appeared, one falling beneath Fury's hooves, causing the horse to stumble, and his blade sheared the top of the second man's skull. The monks were inside the wagon now; he could see them, frantically heaving out bags and chests, throwing them to others on the ground to pull apart. Gold and silver, crosses and plate and chalices spilled onto the mud.

He was almost there, when a line of monks closed on him, their staffs upended, hammering against him and the horse. A sharp blow caused Fury to rise and flail his front legs, catching one man a crushing blow to the skull and splitting another's face apart. The horse twisted and was forced back and down into the mud. Gisburne kicked his boot out of the stirrup to keep from being trapped. Pushing up with his other foot he leapt out of the saddle and ducked away from the deadly staffs.

Where were the guard, he thought furiously. A staff cleaved the air above his head narrowly missing him. Keeping his head low he charged and caught the man in the stomach, winding him. He was up against the wagon now. Nearby one of the monk's rummaged through a saddlebag - his and Arthur's saddlebag- and gave a shout of triumph. The monks threw themselves off the wagon, a man each side of the saddlebag, heading back into the trees, the others in close formation behind, brandishing their staffs.

Guy flung himself further down the track and entered the trees keeping abreast of them but out of sight. Over the sound of his own panting, he could hear them labour to drag the saddlebag through the trees and laughed. How far did they expect to get lugging that great weight with a hundred of the King's guard behind them he wondered?

There were sounds of fighting and death and he guessed that the first of the guard had caught up with the monks. He kept running. There were no more sounds of pursuit and he caught sight of the group through the trees, smaller now, but still strong, a cordon of eighteen men around the two who dragged the leather bag. Where were the guard!

There, flashes of red, some distance behind the group. The cowards were holding back, pissing scared of a group of monks with sticks.

"Come on, you bastards," he roared at them and headed through the trees towards the group of black habits. His blade slashed and cut, slashed and cut. Three soldiers pushed through the undergrowth and he turned his head to scream at them to fight, when the butt of a staff cracked him under the chin and he hit the dirt floor of the forest.

As he went down the monks fled further into the trees, but the one who'd hit him kept his feet planted firmly on the ground, raising his staff up over his head to bring down a crushing blow. Gisburne twisted his body at the last second, caught the end of the staff in both hands and jerked down, yanking the young monk from his feet. The three soldiers were beside him and one planted his knee firmly in the monk's back pinning him to the ground. Gisburne struggled up. He pushed the soldier aside and gripped the monk by his cassock to pull him around.

The young lad looked at him, his face contorted with fury, then struggled to free himself. Gisburne raised his fist and bought it down, smashing the monk's nose and making him yowl in pain. He stopped struggling, spitting blood and mucus. A wild grin stretched his face.

"It is too late," he said. "We have what we came for."

Gisburne glanced up. There was no sign of the monks or the saddlebag. Angrily he jerked his prisoner to his feet and set off back towards the main road.


	27. Chapter 27

Sweating heavily, the leading monk dropped his side of the saddlebag, causing his companion to grunt and fall with the weight of it. Stepping forward from his hiding place in the trees Brother Hubert knelt beside them. Pulling back the flap he thrust around inside until his hand closed on the box. He withdrew it, marvelling at its simplicity; that such a plain object could contain so great a treasure.

He lifted the lid cautiously and there inside, resting on the red velvet lay the amulet. He let out a long, slow sigh of contentment, but he did not reach into the box. He would not touch it; knew better than to touch it. For he knew the power of such a talisman, even as he did not fully understand it. He knew that to the uninitiated such a relic meant certain death.

Closing the lid he waited as, singly and in pairs, the monks began to find him in the forest, drawn back together by the cords that bound them in the Baron's service. There had been more than fifty of them in the ambush, only twenty-nine returned; a high price but not unexpected. He signalled for them to move out but one of the two who'd helped to carry the heavy bag nodded back at it.

Brother Hubert looked and saw the gleam of the gold and silver within. Once he would have risked his life for such treasure, but now it paled in comparison to the thing in the box. Nothing but mineral and rock, he thought, cold and devoid of life, not like the amulet. He shrugged and the surviving monks turned their backs on the Crusader's treasure and headed home to their waiting master.


	28. Chapter 28

The wagon train limped into Nottingham and made its way up to the castle. De Rainault was ready to greet them in the yard, bowing and scraping to the King, too busy fawning yet to notice Guy further back in the retinue. 

"So that is your old master,"Arthur saidas they dismounted. He had been travelling ahead of the wagons in a litter, on Brother Hubert's orders, but had insisted on mounting his destrier and helping Gisburne guard the prisoner for the remainder of the way.

Guy scowled his jaw aching where a purple bruise spread across it. News of the attack had been sent ahead to the King and rumour come back down that he was furious. But the orders said that they would press on to Nottingham.

Ahead of them John dismounted, his face white, lips drawn into a thin line. "By God, de Rainault, but I should have your head for this," he hissed.

Beside the Sheriff stooped a haggard man of middle years. This, Gisburne guessed, would be his replacement, the new steward. He grinned humourlessly and wondered how much entertainment the Sheriff found this bookish looking man.

He hung back with Arthur and helped order the retinue. He had no wish to force a meeting with de Rainault, that would come soon enough. He smiled as he thought of the browbeating the Sheriff would receive at the hands of John. At the stables several familiar faces passed him by. He removed his helm and the sergeant-at-arms jumped forward as if an arrow had speared him in the rear.

"Sir Guy! My lord, what are you doing here?"

Gisburne looked him over arrogantly. "I am with the King's retinue," he informed the man.

The sergeant glanced about nervously and lowered his voice. "We did not know what had become of you, my Lord. The Sheriff sent me to Newark with the money for your fine, but when I got there you had already left."

Gisburne was startled. "De Rainault put up the money for my fine?"

"Yes, my Lord, but it was too late, you'd left Newark and nobody was sure where you were to be found."

And I don't suppose de Rainault wasted much time on finding out, he thought to himself.

"Help me order this rabble," he told the sergeant.

The man saluted sharply and ordered his men to see to the horses and direct the servants to the kitchens.

Arthur raised his brows. "Not such a hard man then, the Sheriff."

Still lost in his own thoughts, Gisburne did not reply. They left the disorder of the courtyard and went into the great hall, dragging the young monk with them. De Chambray and the King were seated upon the raised dais. The Lady Annys sat at a right angle to the table, gazing out of a nearby window, beside which stood the Abbot Hugo. The man that Gisburne guessed was the new steward hovered nearby, one hand alternately wrapping the other in an odd wringing motion.

"You assured me that Robin Hood was dead," came the nasal voice of the King. "You'd seen the body with your own eyes."

"Indeed I did, my Liege." The Sheriff stood at the foot of the steps wearing his finest garments and chain of office.

"But now you claim he is back in Sherwood. And my baggage train is attacked and robbed. How can this be, de Rainault?"

"I am at a loss to explain - "

The King thumped the table, causing goblets and platters to rattle. "At a loss? Is that the best you can do? And why does William Brewer inform me that the taxes in Nottingham have been lowered?" The King's face was now a deep shade of puce. Spittle flew through the air as his voice raised in pitch.

Hugo nestled his cup in the safety of his hand and settled back in the shadows to enjoy his brother's discomfort.

"Your majesty's subjects were dying of starvation," answered de Rainault mildly. "I thought it prudent to lower the rents and the taxes and persuaded my brother..." he gestured to the Abbot in the shadows, "to lower the tithes."

Hugo stirred uncomfortably, raising his goblet to his lips to hide his pale face.

"You thought it prudent?" snarled the King, gripping the arms of his chair as if to hold himself in it.

De Rainault nodded his head sadly and Gisburne decided that Hugo was to be disappointed; de Rainault was well prepared for the King's anger.  
"Peasants are worth more to your Majesty alive than dead. Less taxes or no taxes, that was the choice I faced."

John glared down at the Sheriff of Nottingham for several long minutes. Then, slowly, he eased back in his chair and pulled his cloak tighter around him, his face returning to its normal colour. De Chambray saw Gisburne at the back of the Hall with his prisoner and beckoned him forward.

One hand firmly on the rope, the other gripping a handful of cassock to hurry the monk, he marched up the Hall and threw him to the floor at the foot of the dais. The monk's bound hands cracked painfully as he tried to stop his face from scraping on the flagstones. Gisburne drew his sword, just in case the boy had any ideas of running for it.

"Sir Guy's quick thinking bought you a prisoner, my Liege," said de Chambray.

The King's face brightened visibly. The Sheriff turned to look at the knight. Only the bulge of his eyes gave away his shock at seeing Guy back in his hall and in such elite company. "What does he say, Gisburne?" demanded the King.

"He will say nothing, my Lord."

The monk staggered up, his eyes darting about, seeking a means of escape.

"See to it will you, Gisburne, I am sure you can make him talk. Tell us where Robin Hood hides himself."

Gisburne hesitated. "I am not sure it was Robin Hood who attacked us, Sire." he said.

"What?"

All eyes turned on him and he shifted uncomfortably. "I am...familiar with the outlaws. I saw no faces I recognised and the outlaws are proficient in the longbow and the sword, I saw only men with staves."

"They were hooded and robed, an adequate disguise surely," said the King.

Gisburne nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, my Liege, but Robin Hood was never modest about his attacks. He liked it to be known and this attack...it doesn't follow his usual pattern."

The Sheriff stepped up level with Gisburne and nodded to him. "Sir Guy could be right, my Lord King. Huntingdon never hid his face before."

De Chambray leant forward. "Huntingdon?" he asked, his face sharp and wolfish in the torchlight.

"Robert of Huntingdon," confirmed de Rainault. "The Earl's son, turned renegade."

"Ah!" said de Chambray, his eyes on Gisburne, "I had heard some rumour to that effect. So, the Earl's heir is an outlaw."

The King's expression soured. "Get what you can from the prisoner."

De Rainault turned to Gisburne, his expression giving away nothing of his feelings at seeing his old steward again. "You know your way to the dungeons, don't you, Guy?"

Gisburne hauled the monk to his feet. The wild-eyed man twisted in his grip and caught the blade of the sword between his bound wrists. For a second Gisburne thought he was attempting to cut his ropes, then saw the blood flow down the man's arm as his wrists split open. The damn creature was attempting to kill himself! His sword clattered to the floor and he gripped the monk more firmly.

"I'll get what I can from him my Lord," he answered grimly.


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's note – For molog and sealgirl for encouraging me to get on with it, and Fayzalmoonbeam for betaing it, one edited chapter and two new ones. Enjoy:)**

Mark Farrier had caught up with the snaking train of wagons and managed a few

whispered words with his Lordship, before the monks had attacked. While Sir William and his men had gone on ahead to reinforce Gisburne, Mark had discreetly slipped away to the back of the train. Mark was not a soldier. He had no yearning to play the hero and he was not about to jepardise his job prospects by drawing attention to himself. After all, his trade in secrets, his business, relied on not being noticed.

His small, dun pony, its white hocks muddied to disguise it, was easily hidden amongst the human flotsam and jetsam that made up the rear of John's mobile court. They were mostly women; the wives, mothers and lovers of the men who followed the King. He heard the whispers and speculation rushing like a wind amongst them about the fighting up ahead. So, he held back and blended in, kept his ears sharp for news and slipped unseen up to de Chambray's hurriedly prepared apartments at Nottingham Castle as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Now, Sir William placed his leather booted feet upon the table and stretched his hands behind his grizzled head as if he could relax at last. Mark was not deceived. He had known the Duke for many years and carried out missions of the utmost delicacy on his behalf. He doubted if William de Chambray ever truly relaxed his guard. And especially not now, with the King so precariously balanced between his Baron's, the Welsh and the French.

"Now, Mark. Perhaps you will tell me all your news," de Chambray said.

Mark did not sit. He stayed with his back against the hearth, the fire warming the wool of his brown, homespun shirt and began his tale.

"I have been at Huntingdon," he began. "I met a girl whose grandmother once worked for the Earl. The old woman had been a cook at Huntingdon Castle. I courted the granddaughter for several days and then the old woman confided a strange story." He paused and took a step away from the fire as his shirt became uncomfortably hot. "She was adamant that when Edmund of Gisburne was reported dead, his wife, Lady Margaret, was bought to the Castle and she and the Earl were married in secret. It seems David and Margaret were once in love, until her father married her off to Edmund. And David was too young, or too foolish, to speak for the girl's hand."

De Chambray gave a nod of understanding. "And Guy's birth corresponds with this?"

Mark shrugged. "The woman is old; deaf, blind and crippled and her mind not too clear. But on past memories she seemed quite lucid, my Lord."

"It is often the way with the mind of the aged," de Chambraysaid. "They cannot remember what passed that morning, but the events of years before are like yesterday." He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, deep in thought. "So Gisburne may be the Earl's son."

"There is a good possibility," Mark agreed.

"The Earl's legitimate son Robert is ruled out from succession because he has taken up with outlaws."

"So if Gisburne is the Earl's son..." the spy began speculatively.

"He might not inherit all, but he may aquire a good portion of the Earl's estate, if David should so choose. He has the Earl's good will, of that I am certain." The Duke smiled at Mark. It was not his habit to reveal too much of his plans to his underlings. "You have done well, Mark. Payment will reach you in the usual way, although I think you have earned yourself a bonus for this."

Mark gave a low bow, understanding that he had been dismissed, and left the room.

William de Chambray sat for a long while as the sun moved on its arc, lengthening the shadows in the room. He brooded on the information Mark had given him. From the meeting he had witnessed at Newark, his instinct told him that the Earl knew the truth, while Gisburne had no idea of it. Why else would the Earl have paid the fine for a man he'd reputedly always despised. Did that mean the Earl himself only recently knew that Gisburne might be his son? And the Earl was younger brother to the Lion of Scotland. What a powerful alliance that would be!

He gave a small smile as his plans took shape. He had a proposition for Gisburne, one he was sure the young Knight would not refuse. One that could further his own plans for influence considerably.

The King was busy with a young maid he had bought with him from Newark and would not expect de Chambray's company until supper. Now would be the perfect time to speak his mind to his ward. He called for a servant and summoned Annys. She came quicker than he had expected and took the seat farthest from him across the table. He pretended not to notice.

"Well, my dear, are you enjoying life at court?" he said with a pleasant smile.

"It is a refreshing change from the countryside," she said, coldly.

"The King is very taken with you."

Annys showed no surprise at the statement. De Chambray took a moment to study her. Her hair, the colour of a newly ripened chestnut, gleamed in its long braid. Her pale skin was flawless, her lips pink and bowed. She was almost nineteen and a woman had a right to marry, a duty even. It was, he thought, a shame to let such beauty go to waste. Perhaps he should marry her himself. He laughed inwardly. He was twice a widow and had three sons to inherit his wealth. He had no need of a wife to distract him.

Reaching for the jug of wine in the centre of the table, he refilled his own goblet and poured one for her. She ignored it.

"Before the King decides to bed you we must see you safely married."

Annys arched an eyebrow, her gaze cool. "Marriage? Have you run my estates into the ground already, my Lord?"

He ignored the gibe. Her dower was not large, but it was profitable and he'd made sure that it was well run during his wardship. He would miss the revenue it generated. However, putting Annys firmly within the King's grasp and fathering a royal bastard on her was a means to his own ends. And she would play her part.

"You have someone in mind?" Annys said at last.

"Guy of Gisburne," he said promptly. He enjoyed the look on her face. That had shaken her complacency.

"He is poor knight, with nothing to his name." Her tone was scathing.

"There is more to Gisburne than you think. Give the King a bastard. Marry Gisburne to give it a name. Just make sure the child is a boy."

She cast him a contemptuous look. "And if I say no?"

"You will marry as I say or you will enter a convent and your lands will revert directly to me."

A slow smile curved Annys' lips. "In truth, my lands would revert to the convent." She rose and walked across the room to warm her hands by the fire. "I will not deny the King should he ask for me. But can you not find a more fitting husband than Gisburne?"

De Chambray drained his goblet of wine, pulling a face as he did so. De Rainault's cellar was not the finest. "Gisburne may yet surprise you, my dear. He has...potential."

"Potential to be your lapdog?" She turned back to face him. "It seems I must take your word for it. Very well, I will go willingly to the slaughter. Just make sure it is worth my while, or I shall find an interesting tidbit or two to whisper in the King's ear after he has taken his pleasure of me."

De Chambray hid a smile. He had expected nothing less than such a bargain from Annys Lanfranc. There was just one other small matter to deal with.

"What of your virginity?" he said.

A flush coloured her cheeks. "My Lord!"

"Far be it from me to call into question a lady's virtue, but I recall you setting your sights on my eldest son." Fortunately, she had been too young to have sense enough to deny Philip what he'd most craved and de Chambray had caught them at it before she had persuaded the misguided fool of a boy to elope with her. He had a pleasing vision of her up against the tree, her pale legs wrapped around Philip as he rutted her like a stag.

Her blush faded as fast as it had come. "Moss soaked in ewe's blood will do-"

He held up a hand to cut her off. "Spare me your witchery, I have no need of the details. Just make it convincing. And hold John off until just before the wedding."

"I understand, my Lord." She gave a thin-lipped smile and ,for a moment, de Chambray almost pitied Gisburne.


	30. Chapter 30

Robert crouched at the side of the track and listened to the approaching hoof beats. Herne had woken him in the night with directions to this place and he had gathered up his men to wait in the misty dawn. It had been a long wait, as the morning heat had cooled into a grey afternoon. He could hear someone shifting behind him and he hushed them impatiently, understanding their restlessness, for his own legs were burning with cramp at holding one position for so long.

He turned his attention back to the ambush. The track narrowed here, making it harder for oncoming troops to turn their horses once the outlaws attacked. He caught a glimpse of Scarlet, similarly concealed across the way from him, his head bobbing into sight for a moment as he judged the horses' speed. And there was the horse Herne had shown him; a magnificent grey, unshaded by any markings. Its mane matched its coat, rippling under the slight breeze without a single white hair to mar its perfection.

The Knight held himself proudly in the saddle. His armour was of a design Robert had not seen before. Instead of mail, he wore interlocking plates of metal over his left arm and shoulder, against which he loosely held his shield. His sword hung in its scabbard at his side, tapping gently against the metal casings of his boots. His helmet hung from his pommel and his face, young and hairless, turned this way and that as his eyes searched the trees around him.

A group of foot soldiers armed with crossbows and swords came into sight. Numbers were almost evenly matched. Robert looked back at his men, camouflaged by the trees. One or two were grinning, from nervousness or excitement he couldn't tell. This was the first time most of them had gone up against armed men and it was a test he had been dreading. He was not ready to bury a comrade just yet.

He raised his longbow and loosed his arrow, hearing the hiss and thwap of the bows behind him. Several of the soldiers went down, one of the lead horses bolted and went charging past their hiding place, its rider frantically trying to rein him in. Robert ignored them; it was not the horse he wanted.

His men stepped out onto the track, swords and staves at the ready, the odds now firmly in their favour. The remaining soldiers fumbled with their crossbows and the Knight wheeled his grey horse in an attempt to rally them.

"It's the outlaws! Draw your blades, men."

The soldiers began to advance down the track, some loosing their cross bolts before unsheathing their swords. Those of the outlaws who had fitted a second arrow to their bow loosed them now. At this close distance, the power of the longbows threw the soldiers backwards as they found their mark. The remaining soldiers hesitated. In a desperate attempt to stop them fleeing, the Knight turned the grey and bore down on the outlaws, his great sword sycthing through the air. Much rolled away from the oncoming hooves but Selwyn wasn't so fast, the blade catching in his shoulder, dragging him along before it tore loose. John and Matthew struggled to pull him from the path of the soldiers.

"Don't harm the horse," Robert ordered. He drew Albion, reassured by the weight of it in his hand. Will and Nasir were by his side. Still the Knight came. With practiced ease, he turned the horse at the last second and slashed down at Scarlet, but the outlaw was no longer there. Nasir came up on his other side, his double blades still sheathed across his back and the Knight tried to shift his sword to his other hand. It tangled in the reins.

The clash of blades from up the track told Robert that the other outlaws had reached the soldiers, but he kept his eyes firmly on the Knight, who had regained his grip on the sword. The long blade arced down again and Robert jumped backwards to avoid it. He saw John coming up from behind the horse, unnoticed as yet by the Knight. As the man tried to turn again John's great yew stave came up and across, meeting the armoured shoulder. The blow unbalanced him and Nasir leapt upwards, placing one foot on top of the Knight's stirruped boot, using the momentum of John's blow to pull the knight backwards. His mailed foot slipped from the stirrup and Nasir leapt away in a fluid movement as the Knight came crashing to the ground, Will's blade hovering at his face.

Robert grabbed at the horse's bridle, soothing the frightened animal. He looked it over with satisfaction. He was beautiful, his hair dark, but no other colour dappling his coat. He looked down at the Knight.

"What's your name?" he said.

"Sir Percy Vaudrey," the other man said, panting lightly from the fall.

"Order your men to stop."

Sir Percy looked up the track to where the remains of his troop, surrounded by the outlaws, were refusing to lay down their weapons.

Scarlet nudged him with his sword. "Order them to stop, or you all die."

Defeated, Percy called his orders and his men reluctantly handed over their weapons.

"Has no-one told you that Sherwood is a dangerous place?" Scarlet said.

Robert held out his hand and, after a moment, Percy took it and was hauled to his feet.

"There are those of us who wish to make it less so," he said. "Are you the one they call Robin i' the Hood?"

"I am." Robert said. "What makes you seek trouble with outlaws?"

"Money," said the young man ruefully. "Do you not know? There is a price on your head of five hundred marks."

Scarlet laughed. "Five hundred?"

"Five hundred for Robin Hood and fifty a piece for the heads of his men, if they can be proved to be so," the Knight said. "By order of the Sheriff of Nottingham."

Will scowled at Robert who nodded. "I know Will, but if we'd have killed de Rainault, the King would have sent out in force after us. We don't need that right now."

"I'd say you already have it, like it or no," interrupted Percy. "The King is resting at Clipstone and has authorised every available man to take up the Sheriff's bounty. The forest would have been full of them today if not for the tournement at Nottingham Castle."

The clop of hooves caused them all to turn. The other young Knight had halted his runaway and come back for his companion.

"Sheathe your sword," Robert ordered.

The man hesitated, taking in the bodies on the track, the huddle of soldiers guarded by the outlaws. He thrust his sword back into its scabbard angrily.

"Take anything of value," Robert said. "Then let them go." He patted the soft nose of the grey. "We have what we came for."

For once Will did not argue with him although his habitual scowl showed he was not best pleased that the two Knights go free. The young Knight was forced onto the back of his companion's horse. Robert paused beside them.

"I have a message for the King," he said. "Tell him that Sherwood belongs to the people of England. He has no right to trespass here."

Percy Vaudrey nodded. "If he lets me keep my head," he said. "My horse's name is Zandaqa. Treat him well, for I shall be back to claim him."

Ordering Much and some of the others to escort the miserable group of soldiers out of the forest, Robert made his way along the track to check on the injured. He found Matthew and Nasir kneeling beside Selwyn. The older man shivered with pain and fear, his face white and glistening with sweat. The Knight's sword had torn a ragged gash from the top of his shoulder to his chest. Unable to find words to comfort him, Robert snapped an order at John and Ulfe to build a stretcher and turned away, his face grim.


	31. Chapter 31

The melee had gone well for Gisburne and his men. By the end of the afternoon, they had captured six of the Earl of Leicester's men and drawn back to their safe haven at Wickham to present their prisoners to de Chambray. Gisburne sat astride Fury in the middle of the village, wearing his finest armour and a blue cloak that he'd retrieved from his old rooms at Nottingham Castle.

The thatched huts looked shabbier, the villagers thinner, but apart from that the village had changed little since the last time he'd visited, taking their grain for the King. The mud track running through the centre of the huts had been churned by the hooves of the soldiers' horses and anxious villagers lined the edges of it. Edward, the reeve, pushed aside the sacking cloth that covered the entrance to his hut and came to stand by his wife, both of them glaring at Gisburne.

Sir William came alongside him on his bay horse, taking in the rebellious expressions. "What is going on, Guy?"

"The villagers are complaining that their crops are ruined," he said.

"Tell them to apply to the Sheriff for compensation." He gestured at Edward.

"Is that the reeve?"

" Yes, a trouble maker. This village is known to have associated with the Wolfsheads." Gisburne allowed contempt to leak into his tone " If I'd had my way, I'd have burnt it to the ground long ago."

De Chambray smiled. "There are other ways to coerce these peasants whilst still keeping them useful, Guy."

A sergeant came running over from the perimeter of the village, his boots muddied from the day's marching. "My Lord, the Earl's men have rallied and are approaching on foot across the fields," he said, excitement plain in his voice.

"Damn!" said de Chambray. "I was sure we'd knocked the wind out of them."

Ahead of them lay the assart cleared from the forest by the villagers and planted with crops. Rippling in the breeze, the high stands of wheat were golden and healthy and the Earl's men were trampling over them as they came towards de Chambray's safe haven.

Tightening his thighs against Fury's flanks Gisburne turned him to face the men. "We've already taken six of them, including a Captain," he said. "We've done well. But I want the Earl. He'll be worth the biggest ransom at the feast tonight."

De Chambray nodded in approval. "We'll keep them occupied here, Guy. The Earl will hold back, probably on that rise over there to gain a better view of his men." He nodded towards a slope some distance away, near to where the King and his entourage watched the action. "Take your best men and deploy as you see fit."

Gisburne dismounted and led Fury over to Edward. "See that my horse is watered and kept well away form the action," he said, brusquely.

Edward took the reins from him. "Aye, my Lord."

Gisburne looked at him sharply; this man had always managed to mouth the right sentiments without seeming to mean them, but he had no time now to deal with an insolent serf. He nodded to Henry and the archers, who had left their bows behind today in favour of swords.

"Fetch Robard and the Welshmen," he said.

"Haven't seen Robard since we engaged the Earl's men, my Lord," Henry replied.

Gisburne frowned in annoyance. "Pick your own men then." He waited until Henry had called five soldiers to his side. They set off into the trees that skirted the wheat field.

He judged their movements well and within a few minutes, they found themselves just behind the rise de Chambray had pointed out. De Chambray had guessed correctly, for the Earl sat astride his great war horse, atop the rise, making short, stabbing movements with his drawn sword as if encouraging his men on the ground. One of his knight's sat beside him and four soldiers lounged at the foot of the rise. Only one held his sword ready, the others were chatting idly amongst themselves.

Handing over the rope that he had found for them, Gisburne gestured two of the Welshmen around the mound, waiting until they had crouched out of sight. His plan was risky and depended on drawing the knight away from the Earl. He sent Henry and the rest of the men back into the trees. On his signal they would attack the soldiers.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped to the foot of the rise and drew his sword. The Earl's head whipped around at the sound.

Gisburne smiled pleasantly at him. "My Lord, I believe the day is ours."

The Earl laughed. "My lads'll whip your insolent arse Gisburne. Take him, men!"

Gisburne raised his sword and Henry burst out of the trees, distracting the soldiers, who were already moving towards Guy. The Knight beside the Earl did not draw his sword. He reached behind his saddle and drew out a flail. He hefted the handle, two spiked balls swinging menacingly on the ends of their chains. Gisburne cursed inwardly, he had not expected this.

Henry was at his side, passing him a shield from one of the captured soldiers. Thrusting his arm through it quickly, Gisburne glanced back up at the knight. The flail was a one-hit one-kill weapon that could swing over the top of a shield and smash a man's head and helmet into a bloodied mess, but some protection was better than none. He took a step backwards and the Knight kicked his horse down the slope, the flail whistling savagely as he came.

At the last possible second, Guy ducked and rolled to the side, tucking as much of his long body under the shield as possible. The steel balls sang past his head, one thumping into the wood of the shield. He fumbled to free his arm, but his mail mitten caught against the strap. He groaned as the knight's momentum dragged at the wood, tearing his arm, then suddenly he was free.

Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, he shrugged away the splintered shield and climbed unsteadily to his feet. The Knight had stopped several yards away and turned, but he was not coming back. His eyes under his helm were fixed on the hill. Gisburne heard the thud of hooves. He turned. The Earl had drawn his own sword and was bearing down on him, hoping for an easy capture whilst he was distracted.

"Now!" Guy screamed.

From their hiding places on either side of the mound, Heddiog and Bran pulled the rope between them. The Earl bore down on Guy, his sword slashing. The rope sprang taut with a hum barely audible over the thud of the horse's hooves. It tangled around the warhorse's front legs and sent the great beast sprawling. There was a crash of mail and a thud shook the ground.

Gisburne righted himself. The Earl, pinned to the ground by the weight of his mail, lay some way from his horse, the animal struggling and kicking to free its legs from entanglement. The force of the beast's run had dragged the two Welshmen along with it. Heddiog had had the sense to let go as soon as the horse caught, but Bran was nursing his two hands, raw from the bite of the rope.

Gisburne stepped across to where the Earl lay winded on the soft grass. He held his sword at the man's throat, elated by his success. He could expect a fair reward from Sir William for this victory. "As I said, my Lord, the day is ours," he said with a slight smile.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N For kezya, for giving me a much needed boot up the backside ;)**

Robert walked in the midst of the group of outlaws as they straggled back to the camp. Beside him, two of the men carried a rough litter, hurriedly constructed to carry Selwyn. Behind him came the muted groans of the walking wounded as their companions helped them home. The men they had left to guard the first and nearest of the camps had built up the fire against the cool of the evening and he gave a small sigh of relief at the welcoming sight. One of the men, an outcast from the village of Oxton called Lem, came towards them. His furtive approach put Robert instantly on his guard.

"What has happened?" he said.

Lem's face, twisted from torture at the hands of Gisburne during time spent in Nottingham's dungeon, nodded his head back to the fire.

"A visitor, said he knows you. Found him wandering some way from the camp and thought it best to keep 'im here, 'til you got back, like," Lem said.

Robert made his way towards the fire, squinting his eyes against the bright flames as a familiar figure rose up and swayed towards him.

"Tuck!" He stretched out a hand to welcome his old friend, then took a step back as Will, Much and Nasir joined them, clapping hands with the newcomer. John squeezed the friar in a rib crunching bear hug.

"Your men almost sent me packing with an arrow in my rear for my troubles," Tuck puffed, when John had released him. "Have you not taught them to know friend from foe, Robin?"

"In these uncertain times it is hard to know whom to trust," Robert said, glad for many reasons to see his old friend. "You have chosen a good time to return to us, we need your skill with herbs."

The litter bearing Selwyn was bought forward and laid within the circle of light from the fire. Tuck bent to examine the gaping wound, his face serious and businesslike. After a thorough examination of the torn limb he called for water to be boiled and sorted through his pack for the few herbs he always carried with him.

As they waited for the pot to boil he beckoned Robert aside.

"I can't do much except ease his pain and keep the wound clean to prevent painful infection. A wound that size, that much loss of blood..." he trailed off helplessly.

Robert bowed his head. He had known the moment he'd seen the wound that it would be fatal, so deep that the white of the bone could be seen gleaming against the scarlet flesh. Selwyn would be his first casualty since his return to the outlaws and the reality hurt.

"Give him something for the pain. We have lesser wounded who will benefit more from your ministrations," he said. The words came out harsher than intended.

Tuck reached out a hand and placed it gently on his shoulder. Robert placed his own hand over it, feeling bony fingers instead of the once pudgy flesh that Tuck had always bourne so proudly. He looked sharply at the monk, taking in the battered robes, hanging slack from the once ample belly, the shadowed eyes, the lines and creases that had not been there before. Tuck had aged ten years in the past few months.

"I am sorry, old friend," he said. "We are both still sore from our losses. I'll go gentler with you from now on."

Tuck squeezed his shoulder. "Old friend indeed," he replied. "And as such I can bear a friend's troubles. Let us take a moment later to share each others news, but now I have work to do."

He slipped his grey cloak from his shoulders and Robert took it, admiring the fine woollen knit in the firelight.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"Hmmm?" Tuck threw a distracted glance at the cloak "Marion gave to me." He rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed his hands in a bowl of heated water.

"You've seen Marion? Recently?" Robert asked, aware that the sharpness was back in his tone, but unable to keep it out as he spoke her name. Tuck straightened and met his gaze for a moment, then reached out one dripping hand and placed it back on Robert's shoulder.

"She is well," he said. "I will find you shortly and we'll talk then."

Robert nodded in return and took a step away from him, letting the other man return to his work. The cloak was soft in his hands and he caressed it gently. This was hers, he thought.

_These things will come to you. _

Herne's voice echoed in his head. He folded up the cloak and placed it with Zandaqat's tack. He had thought it impossible to find the objects Herne had asked of him, but all in one day he had completed the forest god's requests


	33. Chapter 33

As Gisburne was making his way across the village to find Fury, the Duke intercepted him, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

"Good work, Guy," he said. "We should make a fair amount from the Earl at the feast tonight when we ransom him."

They crossed the muddied track to where Edward of Wickham waited, a table set out before his hovel with ale and food for the soldiers.

"Sit with me a moment." De Chambray waved the other men away, leaving the two of them alone.

Feeling rather pleased with himself at the day's successes, Gisburne sat, taking a mug of the rough ale and some bread and cheese. The sun had lowered itself in the sky, streaking it with crimson, the air beginning to chill. As they ate, de Chambray watched the soldiers set themselves up at a table in the centre of the village, one pulling a passing girl onto his lap amid the laughter of his fellows.

"Has Nottingham changed much since last you were here?" de Chambray asked.

"Not at all, my Lord" Guy answered politely. "Although it no longer feels like home after such a short time away."

"Good, good," answered Sir William, a little absently. Silence fell between them for a moment. "Guy, I must speak plainly with you," he said at last.

At the seriousness in his voice, Gisburne replaced his beaker on the table, turning to give the lord his full attention.

"You're a promising young man," de Chambray began. "I like you."

Gisburne looked away, trying to assume a modest air. "Thank you, my Lord."

"Not at all." The soldiers were toasting their victory with ale and shouting at the villagers to bring them more food. De Chambray chewed thoughtfully on piece of bread as he watched their antics. "I have a problem, Guy. It seems that my ward, Annys Lanfranc, has caught the King's eye." He allowed embarrassment to sound in his voice, resisting the urge to glance sideways at the younger man and learn how his words were affecting him.

"I am not sure I -" Gisburne began.

"Forgive me," de Chambray closed his eyes, his forehead puckering with anxiety. "It is not an easy subject to broach. If I am to save Annys' virtue from the King, I must marry her quickly and get her out of his sight. Pregnant and tied to an estate he will soon forget her. You know how inconstant he is. I need a husband for her - Guy?" He looked up, his face troubled. "Will you be that man?"

Gisburne choked on his ale and de Chambray sat back, satisfied with the response, until the coughing fit slowed.

"I see I have caught you off guard." A brief smile crossed Sir William's face, causing the scarred flesh to ripple and whiten. "You say you have no allegiences here in Nottingham?" He paused, watching Gisburne closely as the other man nodded slowly in agreement. "Come and work for me Guy, be my man. Marrying Annys will bring you great benefits, not least of which would be my gratitude at having the girl away from court and safe in your care. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I understand," Gisburne said slowly, as his mind worked its way around the offer placed before him. "But what if the King does not drop his suit?" Inconstant though John might be, Gisburne knew how persistent he was when a woman took his fancy.

Sir William sighed, his face serious and considering. Sometimes, he thought to himself, there was no harm in allowing a little honesty to sweeten a deception. "It is your decision, Guy. The King may well continue his suit. If you could not face the thought of bringing up the King's bastard then say so. The position does have certain...benefits, however."

Gisburne looked out beyond the village. The King's entourage had dismounted and were coming their way. He could see Arthur limping beside Brewer. Next to them, her long skirts trailing in the mud, her head inclined politely towards the King, walked Annys. Her glossy hair was covered today, the wimple accentuating her fine features. Her high cheekbones held a flush of colour as she animatedly described something to John. Arthur had once told him that she came from common stock, the daughter of poor Welsh Knight and his peasant wife, but she did not look at all out of place in the company of a King.

He took his eyes from the woman and turned back to Sir William. "My lord, I do not know what to say."

"I believe a simple yes or no is all I require," said de Chambray with a smile. "I am happy to act as your patron regardless of whether you marry my ward."

"Does the Lady Annys know of this?" Gisburne asked.

"She will have no problem with it, that I may assure you."

How much his fortunes had changed since leaving the Sheriff's service, Gisburne thought to himself. Perhaps this was his just reward for all those years under de Rainault. God knew he deserved something.

"I would be honoured, my Lord," he said, a smug smile forming across his lips. He made no attempt to hide it.


	34. Chapter 34

Robert had found a currying brush amongst the goods the outlaws had confiscated from various travellers through the forest over the preceeding months and was using it on the knight's horse. He worked in long, even strokes over the grey coat, enjoying the grooming. He hadn't much use for a horse in the forest. The outlaws moved easier without them. He missed the smell, the softness, the closeness of the beasts and as he brushed he thought of his own courser, a gift from his father, that he had arrogantly named Bucephales.

A wave of longing for Huntingdon, for the hearth of his father, rose up in him. He had given up everything to follow Herne, even his father's blessing, although his father had given him that back to him since.

He leant his forehead against the grey, breathing in the scent of the animal and the soft smell of leather ingrained in his coat. The horse whickered softly and turned his head in curiosity at the gesture.

"There have been times I wished I never left my order," said a voice near him. Robert turned to find Tuck seated on a fallen log watching him, his staff clasped two-handed before him. "You chose a hard path to follow, Robin."

Robert didn't smile. "It chose me," he said. "How was Marion when last you saw her?"

Tuck sighed. "Well enough. Adamant that her life lies in the hands of God at Halstead. Then, some months ago, she would not allow me to see her anymore."

Robert put the brush down and sat, leaning his back against one of the hazel trees that grew around them. The nuts were already forming far above his head, spiky, green buds that they would harvest later in the year to supplement their meagre winter rations. He told Tuck of his vision, stumbling a little over the details.

"Herne says evil is coming, do you think that Gisburne is a part of that?" he asked the friar.

"Possibly." Tuck twisted his hands on the staff as he tried to puzzle out the images Robert had described. "Herne was always a little hazy on the detail," he added wryly. "You haven't told the others that Gisburne's your brother?"

Robert closed his eyes. "No, I haven't found the right time."

"Is there ever a right time for such a revelation?"

"I told my father. It was he who paid Guy's ransom to the King."

"You set Gisburne free?" Tuck's hand paused on the staff, holding it still. "Was that wise, Robin?"

"Perhaps not. Perhaps another way would have presented itself, I don't know." Robert lowered his head into his hands, rubbing tiredly at his face. If only he had not been at Croxden Abbey at the same time as Guy's mother. He would've willingly stayed ignorant of Gisburne's origins for the peace it meant. "Gisburne may well have found another way out of it, but I could not let him die there like that. It's not his fault he is the way he is."

"It's not your fault either, Robin. And don't make excuses for him. A man becomes responsible for the path he treads and can no longer lay the blame at the doors of others. Gisburne could have chosen a different road. You did."

Robert raised his head again and shook it slowly. He wished he could take Tuck's words and believe them. But he was Herne's Son. His path had, it seemed, been preordained long before his birth, as had Loxley's, as had Ailric of Loxley's before them. "My father had a right to know that he has another son. One who is not lost to him," he said.

Tuck frowned. "How did he take it?"

"Not well. I think he loved Margaret once, but she was so far in his past that he had put her aside." Robert paused, remembering his father's disbelief at the news. If it had been any other man but Robert bringing it to him, he felt sure his father would have dismissed it as hearsay. "To think all these years she had still suffered for their love when he had all but forgotten it, that was the worst for him. As for Guy...he has never liked the man, but now? Now he wonders how different life could have been...for himself, for Margaret, as well as for Guy." Robert drew up a stick from the ground, pulling the leaves from it one by one as he thought on the matter. His father held vast estates across the country, he needed an heir now that Robert had forsaken his own duties in those quarters. It was an odd thought that Gisburne may one day possess all that Robert had once believed his own by right of birth. "Perhaps he will try to help him," he said aloud.

"If Gisburne is not beyond all help." There was an edge of hardness to Tuck's words.

Nasir and Much came out of the trees and their conversation halted. Nasir stepped across to the gray horse, blowing softly on his muzzle.

"Zandaqa," Nasir whispered.

"That sounds like your language, Nasir," Tuck said, watching the Saracen's actions with some amusement.

Nasir thought for a moment. "In the language of my people, Zandaqa is the Law of Heresy. But in the language of the tribesmen to the North, it means something else."

"Well?" Tuck prompted him after a minute, giving a swift wink at Robert and Much. "What does it mean?"

Naisr looked across at Robert, a small frown creasing his forehead. "It means a belief in the powers of Light and Darkness."

The others looked at Robert. Aware of their gazes, he tilted his head back against the trunk of the tree, closing his eyes. "I must take the horse to Herne," he said. "There is some purpose here that I don't understand."

Tuck caught Nasir's eyes, uneasy at the translation he had given them. He would find Nasir later and catch up with all that had gone on in his absence. There were things he himself didn't understand and Robin's state of mind was one of them. Their leader seemed distant, his thoughts lost elsewhere. Tuck hoped it was only the loss of Marion that bothered still him - such hurts lessened in time, he thought to himself, even if they never truely healed - but if Robin's visions meant the outlaws faced something greater, then they needed their leader whole and ready to fight. More than that, Gisburne appearance in the outlaw's vision worried him. If it came to a fight to the death between the two men, he wondered what Robin's choice would be. Robin had set Gisburne free in the past and the man had continued to threaten them. What would Robin do if the choice was taken from him and it came to a fight to the death between the half brothers?

"What does your name mean, Nasir?" asked Much, oblivious to the tension in the air.

The Saracen smiled at the younger man. "It means Protector," he said.

"Protector of what?" Much persisted.

"That," said Nasir, his eyes back on Robert, "I have yet to discover."


	35. Chapter 35

Gisburne curled his fingers around a finely crafted goblet of wine and drank deeply. Above him a great candle wheel diffused its soft light over the gathering, muting the silk dresses of the noble women, the jewellery of the men, the armour of the knight's and soldiers. 

Two long tables lined the sides of the hall below the dais, upon which sat the King, with De Rainault and Brewer at his left and de Chambray and Lady Annys to his right. Gisburne and his men had the place of honour at the top of the right hand trestle. Ladened with food, the tables sagged between their joists. De Rainault had dug deep in his pocket for this feast, Gisburne thought, even the rushes had been changed and freshly scented with herbs.

He was, he realised, a little drunk. Everytime he finished his wine, someone would tap his shoulder and whisper congratulations and pour him another goblet full. He had eaten well of the Sheriff's table and been forced to let out his belt by two notches. He was drunk and flushed with success from the melee and his sucess had occured under de Rainault's watchful eye. He burped loudly and grinned. That was by far the most pleasing part of it all.

People talked and laughed amongst themselves until the King stood and signalled for quiet. He looked sulky and tired, his mouth drawn in a thin line.

"Before the entertainment begins," he said, "there is the matter of a ransom to be paid."

To jeers and cheers the Earl of Leicester was bought forward, flanked by Henry and Gwilym. Gisburne stood and the room fell quiet.

"How much do you offer me for the freedom of your lord?" Guy asked of the knight who'd wielded the mace.

The knight rose from his place on the opposite table, a goblet of wine in his hand. A leather bag sat on the table before him.

"I offer one hundred gold pieces," he called, turning to face the crowded room.

The guests at the table howled with laughter at this paltry sum.

"Two hundred," he called again.

The Earl stepped forward. "Give him the five hundred, Raoul. Though if he'd have injured my horse in that stunt of his, I'd have taken every penny he owns to."

Raoul picked up the bag of gold and came across the floor to Gisburne.

"Well played, Sir Guy," he said, grudgingly as he approached.

"What of my man, Robard, he disappeared during the fighting," Gisburne asked.

Raoul shook his head. "We nearly got one of your Welshmen early on but his friends came to aid him and they all got safely away."

Puzzled, Gisbourne glanced over the sea of faces assembled before him, but could not see the man. Robard may have found his own reward elsewhere, he thought to himself with a shrug. No doubt the man had found a pretty girl and decided to celebrate on his own. He would turn up tomorrow with a grin on his face and an aching head to show for it.

Gisburne took the bag and lifted it up to show his men. They roared their appreciation, thumping the table until it shook. Arthur sat some way down the long trestle and Guy gave him a private salute to reassure him that he would receive his fair share as he retook his seat. Arthur looked away from him.

The King slumped back in his chair and de Chambray rose. "I have my own reward to give," he said. "I add another two hundred gold pieces to the Earl's."

Gisburne stood again to raucous cheers and stepped towards the dais. To his surprise de Chambray did not descend himself, but nudged Annys' shoulder. She picked up the bag on the table, scraped her chair back and circled around it to stand on the top step of the dais. Gisburne watched her descend, each dainty, satin clad foot, peeking from beneath her dark green dress as she came. Halting on the lowest step, her cheeks flushed faintly as whispers rippled their way around the Hall.

"On behalf of my Lord, Sir William de Chambray," she said, her voice ringing clear across the hall, silencing the whisperers. She held out the bag to him and her eyes flicked up to meet his.

She was furious, he saw and wondered if de Chambray had told her of the marriage. He smiled back at her pleasantly. She would not be the first reluctant bride, he thought to himself, confident that he could persuade her to like the idea. With de Chambray's backing he would make a good catch as husband and if the worst came to it and she bore a child for the King he would be amply conspensated to bring the child up in his household. A baronetcy at the very least, he thought to himself, happily. He stepped back and bowed low, freeing her to climb the dais back to her place beside the King. Taking his own seat back amongst his men he glanced down the table again. Arthur's seat was empty.


	36. Chapter 36

Marion started awake from an uneasy dream. She was upright in a chair in her cell at the Priory. The fire still burned and Ann sat before it, her needle flashing in and out of the cloth as she darned. The domesticity of the scene reassured Marion and she sank her head back against the cushion that Ann had placed behind her. 

The slight movement alerted Ann who, seeing her mistress awakened, put aside the needlework and bent to pull a small warming pot from beside the fire. She busied herself before the fireplace and bought Marion a cup of the brew she had made. Marion gave her a smile of thanks as the other woman retook her seat and resumed her darning.

Marion took a sip of the sweet liquid, scalding her tongue. It tasted strongly of mint and majoram and another herb she couldn't define. Ann had proved herself a boon as Marion's pregnancy increased, her knowledge of herbs and possets allowing her to brew something to ease every ache Marion had.

She placed her hand on the bump of her stomach as the baby moved within her, feeling a foot or hand push against her fingers. She was exhausted, drained by the pregnancy, and glad that Ann was around to do most of the work that should have been hers. These days, even dressing was an effort and she found herself making excuses not to attend devotions and to avoid leaving her room. Even walking out to the gardens she had so loved during her first weeks here was more effort than she could bear. She preferred it here, in this dark room; the privacy to sit back and remember her dreams of the night, to explore them once more. To see Robin of Loxley, feel his hand on hers, his lips against hers, to walk beneath the canopy of Sherwood with no threat of danger.

She wished for a moment that Tuck was here. She missed him. He had been back only once since their words in the garden and the Sisters had turned him away as she had asked. He had not come again. She hoped he was deep in Sherwood in safety with the others.

She closed her eyes and immediately Robin's face appeared. He smiled tenderly at her.

"How is our child?" he said, the dark fringe of his hair falling into his eyes.

She took his arm, pulling herself close to his side, feeling the warmth of him against her.

"Impatient to arrive," she said. "He kicks so hard."

Robin slipped a hand over her belly. "A strong un I reckon," he said and she smiled, as the baby pushed within her, responding to his voice. He pulled her down beside him and they lay entwined in each others arms, between the shafts of sunlight that carved through the trees.

"Sleep," said Robin, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his green eyes serious and concerned. "You'll need all your strength soon enough."

Marion snuggled against him, happy to be back in his arms. Happy to be safe.

Beside the fireplace Ann glanced up. Marion had fallen asleep again, her lips slightly parted and curved in a smile, her breath fluttering a lock of hair that had strayed from the confines of her wimple. Ann rose and bent over the older woman, lifting the cup which was in danger of spilling into Marion's lap. Her bump, now almost eight months large, shifted slightly and Ann placed her hand against it, feeling the movement of the child within.

"You'll be a strong un' I reckon," she murmured. The baby kicked hard as if in response to her voice. Marion stirred but did not wake. Ann lifted her free hand and brushed the auburn curl aside. "You sleep, mistress," she said. "You'll need all your strength soon enough."

Placing the half drunk cup to one side, she resumed her place at the fire and picked up her needlework, smiling softly to herself as she worked.


End file.
